


The Tiny Little Bungalow

by pointerbrother



Category: One Direction
Genre: "forbidden" love, :-), ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Angst, Cute Dogs, Endgame Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, Hair Salon, M/M, Step Brothers, Strangers to Lovers, Swearing, Tabú, Underage Sex, Wait one more, bodyshaming, enjoy :), gay shaming, harry and Louis are step brothers, immoral behaviour by morally good people deep down, insecurities about being overweight, louis is an only child in this fic, lying, okay thats enough with the tags, there are more relationships in the fic than just H and L but I don't want to spoil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-11-19 10:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 40
Words: 118,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11311722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointerbrother/pseuds/pointerbrother
Summary: “She wants us to move in with her and - and her kids, of course.”Louis blinks harder. “Wait - what?!” He can’t fathom it. They’ve only been dating for five months or summat. “And you agreed to this?! Without even running it by me?!”“Yes,” Troy sighs, eyes wide and apologetic, stature provocatively calm in contrast to Louis’ jittery one, “and I knew you’d have a reaction like this one, but there’s really nothing I can tell you other than… well, that I’ve said yes already and since you’re only fifteen you’re coming with me. And… that I’m sorry to uproot you like this, lad. But… yeah. I don’t know what more to say.”“Wait,” Louis can’t hardly breathe, “wait - hang on, does - does this mean that-”His dad nods. “Yes. We’re moving to Holmes Chapel.”orFifteen-year-old Louis Tomlinson gets reluctantly uprooted from his Doncaster-life when his dad decides to move in with his new girlfriend Anne and her two kids. Speaking of the kids, one of them is this curly-haired bloke who's just a little too pretty for both his own and Louis' good.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If there is any confusion as to why I chose to have Louis live (and have a good relationship) with his father in this fic, it is that I don't like to include his mother or her name in the fics that I write. I guess it's just a respect thing, I don't know, but I feel that there are things which I don't like to bring into the fun times with fanfiction. No hate on anyone who does write Louis' mum into their fics still. To each their own, whatever feels right to you. 
> 
> To me it doesn't, which is why I'd rather paint Louis' father as a good guy in this particular fic, than write his mother into it. 
> 
> Hope that makes sense.
> 
> enjoy :)
> 
>  
> 
> Extra note: Over time, I've had several people comment on Harry and Louis being veery young in this fic considering the amount of graphic smut it contains. The reason that it was normal for me to write was that in my own country 15 is the legal age of consent, and in my personal opinion, that's the perfect age of consent for all country's. So, of course, if you've grown up in some parts of the US, for example, it's going to be seem very "wrong", but as I've grown up with the legal age always being 15 (and I was 17 when I wrote this), it seems completely fine in my head, and I guess that's how I justify it. Just a little note to explain the young ages :)

He gets the news on an otherwise average Tuesday.  

He has been to school. He has hung with the lads for a couple hours after. He has done (most of) his homework and he has even made a proper meal - albeit one which only required a bowl, a spoon and the microwave-oven - for his father to heat up for himself after work.

He has just come home from his evening-walk with Cleo when he finds his father at the dining-room table, not eating the food that Louis had put in the fridge for him.

Louis’ father is staring straight ahead -  whenever he isn’t staring at his phone - and he’s tapping his fingers restlessly - whenever he isn’t chewing on the tips of them. Whether he’s just trying to quit smoking again, or worse, his late-evening glass of wine, Louis can’t be sure. Whether that new girlfriend he’s so obsessed with has broken it off with him and he’s fighting himself not to call her up and beg for her back, Louis can’t know.

All he really can be sure of right now, as he unleashes Cleo and walks warily into the dining-room, is that his father sure doesn’t look himself.

“What’s the matter, old man?”

Troy lifts his head, a slight look of confusion on his face. It soon breaks into a warm grin, but it still doesn’t seem all that genuine. “Hi, lad,” he says and gestures for the chair across from him, “why don’t you come sit down for a sec?”

“All right…” Louis takes a seat, and the process of it feels like it stretches on for ages because his father isn’t filling every second with banter like usual. His succinctness is a bit worrying, actually. “What’s going on, dad? You seem off.”

“Louis.” Troy folds his stiff hands together. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Well. If there’s ever a sentence a fifteen-year-old can’t get enough of… then it certainly isn’t that one. “Yeah?” Louis says, scanning his mind for whatever it is that he’s done wrong since last they had one of their father-son sit-downs. There’s loads to find, but he’s pretty sure none of it is anything that his father would’ve found out about, nor really minded if he had. “Uhm… what have I done?”

“ _Oh_. Oh, no no no, you haven’t done anything. It’s not - no no, you’re all right, don’t look so scared, you haven’t done anything wrong, Lou.” Troy gives a little chuckle. Louis does too, out of sheer relief. All right, then. But what then? As if reading Louis’ mind, his father says then; “but… _I_ might have.”

Louis shifts in his seat, frowning a little. “What do you mean?”  

“I agreed to something,” Troy begins, “ehm… something that I’m not quite sure you’ll be too happy about - at least not right away.”

Louis’ frown grows deeper. “Right. Okay. So what’s-”

“You remember Anne?”

“Yes.” The new girlfriend. The one who spent all of last weekend here, hauled up in the bedroom with Louis’ dad. The one who was, regrettably, not as quiet at Louis would’ve wished with how thin the walls are in this house. He remembers Anne. “What about her?”

“The thing is… Anne has…” he pauses, chewing on his words, “- well, you see - you see, she’s asked me - _us_ \- to move in with her.”

Louis blinks. “What do you-”

“She wants us to move in with her and - and her kids, of course.”

Louis blinks harder. “Wait - _what_?!” He can’t fathom it. They’ve only been dating for five months or summat. “And you _agreed_ to this?! Without even running it by me?!”

“Yes,” Troy sighs, eyes wide and apologetic, stature provocatively calm in contrast to Louis’ jittery one, “and I knew you’d have a reaction like this one, but there’s really nothing I can tell you other than… well, that I’ve said yes already and since you’re only fifteen you’re coming with me. And… that I’m sorry to uproot you like this, lad. But… yeah. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Wait,” Louis can’t hardly breathe, “wait - hang on, does - does this mean that-” 

His dad nods. “Yes. We’re moving to Holmes Chapel.”

 

 

*

 

 

It takes about a week before reality begins to set in.  

At first he’s angry. Confused. Disbelieving, even. At first the mere thought of his dad doing something like this, uprooting him now, at fifteen years of age, just to accommodate some pretty new face, seems unheard of. Ridiculous.

Then the moving-boxes arrives. His dad begins to fold old family heirlooms and little porcelain knick-knacks up in toilet paper. His mates begin to ask questions, questions which imply that they believe this is _actually_ going to happen, that Louis is _actually_ going to leave Donny; ‘ _what school are you transferring to, then_?’ - ‘ _are you going to live with that new lady’s kids_?’ - ‘ _have you even met her kids yet_?’ - ‘ _what if you hate them_?’.

One the Friday, Louis confronts his dad with the worries that his friends have now cemented in his brain.

“They’re nice,” his dad chuckles, “Harry’s the same age as you, I think, and Gemma’s just a few years older. She’s going off to college soon, I think, so you don’t have anything to worry about. There won’t be any little ones running around and getting into your business. It’s nice and quiet at the Styleses.”

Louis would’ve preferred loads of little ones, to be honest. At least if the kid wasn’t old enough that he’d actually have to get to know them, it’d significantly lower the chance of them not getting on very well. Having to live with and get to know new people _now_ , at _this_ age - people his dad will no doubt refer to as his ‘step-siblings’ - it’s just ridiculous, is what it is. Bloody unheard of.

“Anyway, you’ll meet them this weekend if you come along,” his dad says then, “Anne’s invited us down for a grill-night. She’s really looking forward for you to meet Gemma and Harry. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Knowing his dad, the open breezy tone with which he asks the question only lasts as long as Louis doesn’t say no. It isn’t really a question. Louis is coming, whether he likes it or not. “I suppose I will,” he sighs.

That same moment, Cleo comes running to his feet, a roll of duct tape stuck to her bum.

“God, dad, at least put stuff out of her reach,” Louis exclaims as he crouches down to rip the tape off her and ruffle her soft fur in apology.

“She’s a puppy, she’ll get around anywhere she wants, it doesn’t matter where I put stuff - nowhere’s ‘out of reach’.”

Cleo licks at Louis’ hand and then nuzzles her little face into his palm. She _is_ a puppy; the cutest little puppy in the world. Louis only got her a month ago, as a surprise present, right after his father came back from his Venice-trip with Anne and Louis was so taken aback that- “wait.” Louis stiffens. “Hang on a second.”

“What?”

Slowly, he stands up, brushing dog-hairs off of his trousers. “Did you buy Cleo for me out of guilt?”

His dad glances over from where he’s in the middle of peeling a giant wall-sticker down. “Beg your pardon?”

“Did - you only bought her right after you got back from your trip with Anne. You never buy surprise-presents. You could’ve waited, you could’ve done it any other time, but you - you didn’t. You did it right then.”

His dad frowns. “So? Where are you going with this, Louis?”

“You only bought Cleo for me as a way to soften the blow of telling me that you’re uprooting my entire existence. Didn’t you?”

Troy’s mouth drops open.

“You _did_!” Louis exclaims, “how disgusting, you - you - _Jesus_ , she’s a dog, not a new action man-doll - and I’m fifteen, I’m not stupid. You - you could’ve just told me instead of buying me a dog and then waiting an entire month to tell me about the move.”

Troy’s shoulders drop with a long sigh. “What do you want me say, lad? Didn’t know how to go about it, that’s all.”

Louis could’ve told himself that. His dad has never been good with confrontations; back when their old dog died, he went so far as to take Louis all the way up to the countryside and finding a random farmhouse, only to finally break down in the car and admit that the dog wasn’t running around with a bunch of happy geese and pigs and whatnot, at least not in this world.

It’s not his dad’s fault, really. It’s just part of his being. It’s just damn annoying, is what it is.

So maybe, even if Louis doesn’t want to start planning for a future in Holmes Chapel, it _is_ a good idea for him to come along this weekend. Just to see if there’s anyone useful in this new ‘family’ of his. Anyone who might be able to balance his dad out a little.

“Well,” he says, “looking forward to this weekend anyway. Be interesting to meet Anne’s kids.”

 

 

*

 

 

He isn’t wrong about that. 

When Louis and his dad arrive at the big white villa that is the Styleses Saturday noon, they’re instantly greeted by two long-haired brunette's in flailing summer-dresses.

“Hellooooo,” Anne cheers, running down the garden-path to hug and cheek-peck them both, “so nice to see you again, Louiiiiiiiiiis.”

“Thanks. You too,” Louis mutters, fixing the fringe which she just roughly ruffled out of it’s place.

Gemma, who’s pretty much just a younger, paler and (if he’s brutally honest) plainer version of her mum, approaches Louis a little less eagerly, a slow smile on her face and a hand stretched out for him. He instantly likes her.

“Hi,” she says, “don’t mind mum, it’s all nervous energy. She’s been cleaning obsessively for the past four hours.”

“S’all right,” Louis chuckles, “Gemma, right?”

She nods. “Lewis, innit?”

“Yeah, well - no it’s, it’s french so it’s pronounced _Lui_ and - and _christ_ , now I sound like a complete arse.”

She laughs. “Then you’ll fit in here in HP quite well, I suppose.”

“That bad, is it?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “Depends who you’re around, I guess. This part of town though, - at the risk of sounding like a pretentious dick - I’d say is the ‘posh’ part of HP. Ergo,” she grins, “the worst part.”

“Right,” he glances down at his own trot-out espadrilles and his faded red Adidas-windbreaker, “worst for someone like me, you mean?”

She cackles lowly. “I’d never say that,” the crook of her mouth quirks up a little, “aloud.”

Anne guides them all into the front hall, where they’re nervously asked to take off their shoes. Every room is large, white walls and panels and light smooth-polished wooden-floors. The ceilings are high, with detailed patterns in the paint, and the french doors leading out to the back-garden look like something out of the Victorian ages.

“Harry’s very sorry he couldn’t make it to dinner,” Anne says, and Louis hasn’t realized that they’re one person short until that very moment, “but hopefully you’ll meet him when he gets home later on, Louis.”

“Right,” Louis says with a nod, unsure whether he’s supposed to feel relieved or worried at that piece of information. He won’t know until he meets the bloke, he supposes. If he’s anything like Gemma, he should be tolerable enough. Then again, boys tend to be more troublesome than girls. For one, they’re so bloody sexy.

“Is that him?” Louis asks, pointing to a picture of a kid with pink cheeks, crinkles all over his face and two front-teeth missing. If that’s Harry, there’ll be no problem. Looks-wise, anyway.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Gemma says, “eight years ago.”

Right.

Just as Louis is about to ask if there are any more recent pictures of the bloke, his dad swoops in, grabs him by the arm and drags him outside to show off his ‘impeccable grill-skills’. “Louis here knows his way around a grill,” he tells Anne proudly, “never left it’s side last summer.”

“Oh, is that right?” Anne says, clapping her hands together in joy, “well, that’s just wonderful. Harry isn’t much for the grill - prefers the stove and the wok and whatnot - so it’ll be nice to have a man in the house who is.”

“Right,” Louis mutters, tapping his finger to the ancient beast the Styleses have standing on their terrace. He wouldn’t know how to work this thing if his life depended on it. “How come?” he asks, just to move the attention away from himself, “he doesn’t eat meat or?”

“Oh, he eats meat,” Gemma replies, walking up to them, “he just gets so nervous when he has to flip it.”

Louis glances up at her from where he’s pretending to know what the hell he’s doing. “What, he’s afraid to get burned or?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs a shoulder, “he’s got such big hands, he’s much too clumsy with it. He once whipped himself in the face with a sausage trying to turn it - steaming hot, he had a red mark up the side of his face for a week. Funniest thing ever. You should’ve heard him squeal, it was hysterical. Never seen a guy scream like that getting a sausage slapped in their face.”

Louis gives a dry cackle. “Well…”

“Well…” she gives him a light shoulder-bump, “not off the internet anyway, eh?”

He bites back a knowing smile. “Innit.”

Troy and Anne somehow manage to get the old beast working and Louis takes care of the practicalities; basting the meat, turning it properly and at the right times, making sure no one gets a steaming hot sausage whipped in their face.

They eat out on the terrace, chatting about Gemma’s A levels and Anne’s job and her bitchy co-worker’s. At some point, Troy takes Anne’s hand and smiles across the table to grab Gemma and Louis’ (who’ve both been discretely entertaining themselves with their phones under the table for the past ten minutes) attention.

“And we’ve signed the final deal,” Anne says, eyes wide with excitement.

“What?” Louis lifts his gaze a little, half-interested, “what deal?”

“On the house - remember I told you about the house, lad,” his dad insists, “we wanted something bigger, something that’d feel a bit more like a shared home. It’s right down the street from here, a nice cream-coloured house, you’ll love it - oh, and this way all three of you kids get to have your own bedroom. Isn’t that nice?”

Right. Nice. Louis leaves it to Gemma to answer this one. He isn’t quite sure what there is to say about it. Whether they live in this house or another one down the street, they still won’t be living in Donny, and that’s something Louis still can’t quite bring himself to dwell on yet. He prefers pushing it away, at least for right now.

Anne chatters on about the new house while Troy goes and fetches a six-pack. Louis slips away from the table, desperately needing a break.

It still seems to surreal, sitting here in some stranger’s home, in some strange town, essentially getting prepped to be her new ‘son’. It’s so fucking ridiculous still.

He makes his way through the house, out of the front door and down the garden-path. Sneaking a smoke out of his pocket, he rounds the white picket fencing and walks a bit down the street before he finds his lighter. He leans back against a brick-wall and takes a long first drag before studying all the different, yet identical houses on this street. They’re all the same in that they’re nothing like home. This might look like a street that could be in Donny, these might look like houses that could be in Donny, but they all have one thing in common; they aren’t in bloody Donny. They aren’t home. They aren’t where Louis grew up, where Louis wants to stay, where Louis _belongs_. They’re never going to be. They’re never going to be home.

As he’s standing there, smoking his sorry life away, someone comes up and taps him on the shoulder.

He turns to find a tall, slightly hunched-over teenager grinning down at him. He’s got on a pair of loose beige trousers, huge Nike-sneakers and what Louis would assume was a grandmother's knit sweater if it didn’t have a Ralph Lauren-logo on the chest. The kid’s eyes are huge, an almost manic-looking twinkle in them, and his dark chocolate hair curls wildly around his dimpled-up face.

“All right?” Louis asks, taking a step back because the bloke is standing just a little too close for comfort.

“Yeah,” the boy croaks out, like he’s about to choke on his own repressed laughter.

He throws a quick glance over one shoulder and, before Louis has a chance to see what or who he’s looking back at, takes one big step forward and presses his lips to Louis’.

Louis’ hands fly up to the boy’s wide chest, slapping frantically at him.

He isn’t sure how long the boy keeps their lips together, but by the time he finally lets go, they’re both gasping for air.

Then a roar of laughter bursts out from behind the boy. A group of five or six lads are watching, clapping and screaming and cheering him on.

“Sorry,” the boy laughs, “s’a dare. I’m - so sorry.” He spins on his heel and runs back to his friends.

Louis stands around stiffly, unsure of what to do with that. He decides just to go back inside.

But, just as he’s turning up Anne’s garden path, someone comes running after him, yelling; “what are you doing?!”

Louis glances over his shoulder. It’s the curly-haired boy again. He sighs. “Home,” he says, just because it’s only one syllable and that seems a whole lot easier than having to explain his entire life-story.

The boy frowns, now following him up the garden path. “Home?” he points to Anne’s front door, “there?”

“Yeah?” Louis stops half-way up the path, because the boy won’t stop following him, “all right, not trying to be rude here, but why the hell are you following me?”

The boys’ frown deepens. He glances up at Anne’s house again, then back at Louis and opens his mouth to reply.

“Oh, hiiiiiii!” someone yells from the house. It’s Anne. “There you are, baby!”

Louis gives her weirded-out look, because they’re definitely not close enough for that term of endearment, but then she runs right over and throws her arms around the curly-haired bloke. She ruffles his hair, pinches his cheek and then links an arm around his waist and smiles at Louis. “I’m so glad you two got a chance to meet,” she says, “did you introduce yourself or did I interrupt that?” When no one answers, both boys still too utterly bewildered, she gives the curly-haired boy’s chubby cheek a gentle little slap and says; “this is Troy’s son, Louis. And Louis, this is my Harry. He’s been so looking forward to meeting you - haven’t you, baby?”

Oh. Oh _no_.

Harry pastes on a smile. “Yes,” he says, reaching a hand out for Louis, “nice to meet you, Louis.”

Oh no. Louis forces himself to shake the boy's big sweaty hand and say; “nice to meet you too, Harry.”  

“Aaaw,” Anne coos, “like brothers already.”

“Right,” Harry drawls, wiping a hand across the mouth he just had planted, wet and sloppy, on Louis’ less than two minutes ago, “brothers.”

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

One and a half months later, the last bits of Louis leave the house he grew up in. Packed down in boxes, carried out of the front door and stuffed in a white moving-van, his entire childhood.  

His father jumps in a van with a friend to drive useless bits and bobs to the junkyard and Louis stays back, staring at the empty house he’s called home for the past fifteen years.

He considers going inside. Taking one last walk-around and saying a symbolical goodbye to every last room. Sentimentally dragging his fingers over the ridges in the kitchen-wall where his dad scraped up his measurements since he was old enough to stand. Letting Cleo piss on every floor in the house just to ensure that it won’t ever _really_ be anyone else’s.

He decides to have a fag instead.

“Still can’t fuckin’ believe believe this,” Stan yells from across the street, charging toward him, fast followed by Oli.

For as long as Louis remembers, Stan has lived across the street from him. He still isn’t actually sure where Oli lives, but he’s always been around too. The three of them, and the rest of the lads, they’re always just around. They always just have been. There’s never a need to call anyone up, never a need to arrange anything in advance, because they’re always just there; right across the street, right around the corner, right within reach.

Now, as much as they all insist that nothing will change, that they’ll drive to Holmes Chapel every single day if they have to, Louis knows that it’ll never be the same again.

It’s going to change. It’s all going to change. Anything else is just a case of wishful thinking.

A week from now, it’s going to start becoming a bore to have to Skype or Facetime every time they want to feel like they’re not hours apart. A month from now, it’s going to become exhausting to have to arrange every hang-out a week in advance. Three months from now, it’s all going to be fine again. It’s all going to be fine, because by then, they’ll have forgotten about Louis and gone back to their normal lives. Like they did last one of the mates moved towns (hell, Louis can’t even remember the name of that bloke). Like they will again next time it happens. It’s just the way it is. It’s just the way life is.

It’s just utter crap, really. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

“I know,” he mutters as he lifts his cigarette-packet up for Stan and Oli to grab one each. “Still sort of hopin’ it’s all one big horrible joke.”

“S’a nightmare, is what it is,” Oli snorts, “what the fuck is even _in_ Holmes Chapel? Nothing. Nothing, that’s what’s in Holmes Chapel. Donny’s the shit and your old man knows it. His new bird’s gotta be absolutely out of this world or I can’t for the fuckin’ life of me fathom what the hell’s gotten into his rotten mind.”

Louis shakes his head, taking a long drag. “She’s fit, but I still don’t get it,” he mutters, “he’s not stupid. He’s never been stupid about women. He’s - I’ve got no idea, he’s just - absolutely mental about her, I guess. Can’t see what else would drive someone to do this sort of bullshit.”

“Now, are we talking fit, as in, Donny-fit? Or are we talking fit, as in, _fit_ -fit?”

Louis shrugs a shoulder. He could care less. “Fit for her age-fit, I guess.”

“Pics,” Stan says, like the snap of a finger, “pics or it didn’t happen.”

“I’d rather it didn’t happen,” Louis sighs, giving a sardonic little chuckle, “god, what the hell am I supposed to do in some shitty new town at some shitty new school? I’m fifteen years old, fifteen-year-old’s aren’t supposed to switch schools in the middle of everythin’, that’s just ridiculous,” he kicks at last night’s cigarette-butt, lying there at the toe of his worn-out sneak. Fuck, he’s been smoking here, in this exact spot since he was thirteen and never even thought about it. The things you take for granted… “Bloody ridiculous, all of this.”

The boys hum in agreement.

“If only you were eighteen,” Oli says after a while, and it sounds like he’s trying to help, but it doesn’t really do the trick. ‘If only’s never done much for Louis other than leave him with a bitter taste in his mouth. “Then you could just come and live with me and stay here.”

“Right. If only,” Louis says and stubs his fag out and presses his nicotine-fingers into the bridge of his nose. Oh, if only. If only he didn’t have to move schools at fifteen years of age. If only his dad hadn’t suddenly turned into the sort of man who went blind to everything around him, even the needs of his only son, just for a pretty face. If only there was something horrible to be found or said about Anne or her children. If only Louis could tell his dad that he got snog-assaulted by Anne’s son upon their first meeting and actually have him believe it.

But, as it is with anything remotely hope-generating these days, it’s only a case of wishful thinking.

His dad isn’t changing his mind and Anne’s children aren’t horrible - at least not horrible _enough_ \- and the _one_ thing that Louis could use against one of them would only make his dad laugh and snort _‘_ yeah, you _wish_!’.

“And you know what the worst part is?” Louis says, just to add salt to his wounds.

“What?”

“Now that dad’s been so quick to sell off our house, we’ve got nowhere to stay. Anne sold hers as well, after her and dad bought the new house in HP - but the new house isn’t done getting re-painted or whatever yet, so we’ve all got to stay at Anne’s tiny little bungalow until it’s done. And guess where the bungalow is? That’s right, Holmes Chapel. Jesus _Christ_ , that town is haunting me.”

“Bungalow?”

“Yeah, well - well, I suppose it’s cool enough ‘cause it’s got, like, a pool and stuff, but I’ve got to share bunks with my new ‘brother’ because the place is so tiny.”

Stan and Oli exchange a look.

“He fit?” Oli grins.

Louis kicks at his feet. “Shut up, you GOT-obsessed freak.”

“Well, he’s not your _actual_ brother, is he? And just ‘cause he’s family doesn’t mean you don’t have eyes, does it?”

Louis sighs. “Yeah, he’s - he’s fit, in the sort of… sort of awkwardish sense. He’s got curls.”

“You like curls.”

“I don’t _like_ curls,” Louis scoffs, “curls are all right. Curls are whatever.”  

Stan grins. “ _Oh_  - oh, you _do_ fancy him, don’t you?”

“I’ve only met him once, shut up.”

“Oh, this is great, this is just brilliant,” Oli chimes in, clapping his hands together in over-exaggerated excitement, “just imagine the headlines - ‘In Love with the Step-Bro’, ‘Two Families Come Together, Two Brother’s _also_ Come Toge-’”

“ _Seriously_ , Oli. Drop it.”

“Just don’t fall in love with him, though. He’s probably straight,” Stan mutters, “aren’t most good-looking blokes?”

“If that’s the case, then you’re either lying about your sexuality or you’re the exception that confirms the rule,” Louis snorts, but Stan does have a point; most attractive, masculine, fifteen-year-old's - at least the ones Louis meets - do seem to be straight. So even if Louis does find his new ‘brother’ relatively fit, there’ll be no issue - he’s straight. End of. He’s straight.

 

 

*

 

 

He’s fit. He is so, _so_ much fitter than Louis remembered. 

They meet outside the little Holmes Chapel-bungalow for the first time since the first time and Harry is so bloody fit.

He comes sauntering out, curls in disarray, big hands in his pockets and a lazy smile on his red lips, telling them that Anne just went out to the shops. Louis’ dad gives Harry a quick hug, then refuses his vehement offers to help unload the boot and disappears behind the car.

Louis stays at the bonnet with Harry, wavering in awkward silence.

“So, ehm… where’s your sister?” Louis asks just to break it.

“Oh, mum didn’t tell you? Gem is up in Manchester on a college round-trip kind of thing. She won’t be back for, like, a week or something, I think.”

“Oh.” Right. Just the two of them and the lovebirds, then. Shit. “Cool.”

Harry smiles so his dimples pop, then reaches a wary hand over and taps Louis’ hold-all. “I’ve got it,” he says and grabs the bag off Louis before he has a chance to object on the count of not being a girl, “come on, let me show you around.”

Louis follows Harry’s long pale legs sticking out of the red swim trunks he wears like regular shorts, into the little house. There’s not much of an entrance to the bungalow, which opens directly up into a big, square kitchen- and living room in one. Across from the front door, there’s a pair of glass ones, through which Louis gets a glimpse of the pool and a few sun-loungers. Well, at least there’s that.

Harry’s feets slurp in his sandals as he walks and the faint hairs on his calves cling to his white legs; he’s been sitting out there, in the blasting sun, dipping his feet in the pool. And then came Louis and dad, ruining his peace and quiet.

“And, uhm, up there’s the big bedroom,” Harry drawls on, pointing to a stairway, “it’s, like, just one big room up there. Mum and your dad are sleeping up there, so… oh, and then,” he places a big hand on the back of Louis’ shoulder, turning him around, “in here is the kid’s bedroom.”

Louis glances into the room. It’s a tiny little space with a children’s railroad rug covering the floors and two identical bunk bed’s pressed against either wall, a small dresser crammed in between. It certainly does fit its name.

“And we’re the kids?” Louis asks, looking the narrow mattresses over.

Harry chuckles. “I guess, yeah,” he says, “we’re the kids. Anyway, I took the bunk over there, so you can just have your pick at the other one.”

“Thanks.” At least they won’t _actually_ be bunking together, then.

“You can, uhm, - you can just wash up in there, there’s a little bathroom. And, uhm, - I’ll be at the pool,” Harry says, and then, before Louis has a chance to turn his head, sprints off.

Wow. Well, at least he didn’t try to rape Louis’ lips again. He supposes that’s an upgrade.

Although...

After a quick shower and a change into his trunks, he finds Harry out by the pool where he said he’d be. He’s lying back on the springboard, stretched in all his ivory glory, the tips of his toes just touching the pool-surface. He has stretched his arms back, hands holding onto the edge of the springboard and his strong torso arching ever so slightly off of it.

Louis catches himself staring.

Harry catches it too. “Hey,” he murmurs, still not opening his eyes, “quit ogling me.”

Louis gives a screechy sort of scoff. “Pfft,” he says weakly, making a beeline for the sunlounger farthest away from Harry, “don’t flatter yourself.”

Harry doesn’t respond and when Louis finally allows himself to a steal a glance a couple minutes later, he’s utterly consumed by his phone.

They don’t speak for as long as they lie out there, enjoying the feel of the sun to slowly mutating their cells and making their moles turn funny. Harry takes a few dips in the pool to cool himself off, blatantly showing off whenever he head-dives or does a perfect bomb, before laying himself back on the springboard again. Louis makes a point of not moving at all, except when he absolutely must switch sides to avoid ending up looking like a ripped-open Oreo.

At some point, maybe an hour or two later, Anne comes out and calls them in for dinner. They eat inside - to avoid flies, Anne says, but judging from the worried looks she gives Harry’s strawberry-pink nose and chest, more likely to avoid the sun burning her baby to a complete crisp.

Louis glances at his own golden complexion, stifling a smug grin. He doesn’t go red. Never has, never will. Perhaps his occasional visits to the Donny tanning salon prepare his skin a bit for the real thing, but he does think he’s also just lucky. Doesn’t end up looking like a spanked baby’s bottom after fifteen minutes in his swim trunks like certain other people.

“Did you remember sunscreen, baby?” Anne asks carefully, “you look a little, uhm… boiled.”

 _Boiled_. Louis bites his lip not to laugh out loud.

“No, I think I’m all right,” Harry murmurs, and the slight movements of his mouth are nearly enough to crack his entire face into a thousand crisp little pieces of pink ham, “I’ll put some after-sun on later.”

Anne nods, but her gaze doesn't stop rolling up and down his scorched skin. “You sure, baby?”

“Yes, it’s _all right_ , mum.” He throws a hand out toward Louis. “Look, Louis’ fine and he hasn’t used any sunscreen either.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “Uhm, not to be rude or anything, but I think we’ve got different skin types, you and I.”

Harry narrows his own eyes back at him. “Uhm, not to be rude or anything, but I think we’d have exactly the same skin type if you didn’t spend half your winters in the tanning beds giving yourself cancer.”

Louis’ mouth drops open. What. On. Ear-

“ _Harry_!”

“Mate,” Louis says, once he’s finally recovered from his momentary state of shock, “I think you might be having a sunstroke. Maybe you should lie down for a bit? - _Inside_ , that is.”

“Right, thanks for the offer. By the way, I’m running kinda low on money, can I cut a strip of your skin off?”

What. The. Actual. Fu-

“ _Harry_!”

“What the actual fuck?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m making this leather couch that I’m going to sell and I think your skin has just the right texture for-”

“Oh _fuck_ off.”

“ _Louis_!”  

 

 

*

 

 

 **staniel twatcliffe - y dont u just leave**  

**oli parton - we can drive down to u if u want lou**

**staniel twatcliffe - no we cant we dont even have driver licenses u idiot**

**oli parton - we can take public transport down to u if u want lou**

**staniel twatcliffe - brilliant idea oli. we’ll be there by the end of the year lou**

**oli parton - let me live ffs**

**staniel twatcliffe - sorry lou we would come to u if we could. meantime just punch your stepbro in the taint that’ll shut him up for a bit**

“What the fuck…” Louis mutters to himself, scrolling through the group-messages.

Anne and dad went upstairs to ‘sleep’ about an hour ago and Louis has been sitting here in his little bunk for approximately half of that time. He has no idea where Harry is, nor does he want one. For all he cares, Harry can go fuck himself and his strawberry-pink slapped baby-bottom skin with a dried-up old leather couch - _not_ upholstered by Louis’ skin.

Louis glances at himself in the mirror attached to the back of the bedroom door. He’s tan. He’s _tan_. Golden. Honey-bronzed. He sure as fuck doesn’t look anything remotely like a leather-couch. Come back in forty years and then, yeah, Harry might be onto something, but now, right now, he’s fine. His skin looks fine. Soft. Young.

Leather-couch… what an absolute joke.

Louis calls Stan up just to blow off some steam. Maybe Harry will hear him talking shit about him through the wall. Maybe Louis wants him to, just out of spite.

Then he catches another look of himself in the mirror. Maybe he’s acting like a bitter little bitch.

He cuts the call off before Stan has a chance to pick up. He isn’t a bloody twelve-year-old, hasn’t been one for over two years. He isn’t this concerned with what some pale pink-boiled posh boy thinks of him. He isn’t this fucking easy to affect.

He’s-

“Sleeping?” The question comes out on a drawl, slow like the creak of the door.

“Yes.”

Harry enters without another word, closes the door soundly behind him and then proceeds to shamelessly ogle himself in the mirror.

He’s just come out of the shower, it seems, wet strands of hair clinging to the sides of his face and his lips a deep dark pink. The only thing covering his sunburned body is a tiny towel, slung so loosely around his waist that Louis might be able to make it slip to the floor just by blowing his breath out a little too hard.

Not that he has any motive to test out the theory.

“Have you had a wank in here?”

Louis nearly chokes. “I beg your _pardon_?”

“Just asking,” Harry murmurs, cupping his own biceps and flexing at himself in the mirror, “I mean, cause if you haven’t and you need to, I’d prefer it if you didn’t do it while I’m in here.”

Louis stares at the back of his head in disbelief. “You are disgusting. I can go a fucking _day_ without needing to wank.”

Harry shrugs a shoulder. “You never know,” he drawls, “you don’t strike me as someone who gets much action so I just gathered you’d need to take care of yourself at least once a-”

Louis hits him in the head with a pillow, effectively shutting him up. For all of three seconds.

“Louis,” he says, slipping his finger through the fencing of Louis’ bunk to poke him in the side of the thigh, “Louis. Louis. Lewis. _Louis_.”

Louis sighs frustratedly, flicking his phone off and whipping his head around. “ _Yes_?! What now?!”  

“You, uhm,” Harry is holding a bottle of something, waving it impatiently at Louis' face, “could you put this on me? Like, I can’t reach that spot on my back that’s sort of, you know, uhm, unreachable.”

Louis takes the bottle, only because it’s being repeatedly pushed into his face, and then shoots Harry an incredulous look. “You honestly think I’m going to help you put cream on right after you’ve called me a leather-couch and told me I don’t look like someone who gets laid very often?”

“Yeah.” Harry smiles. “So will you?”

“Fuck _off_!” Louis hisses and flings the lotion at him to cement his words.

Harry averts it and then laughs, but it sounds mostly provocative. Louis takes great pleasure in watching him contort himself like a madman, trying to lotion the unreachable spot on his back. Harry notices and squirts lotion at Louis. Louis waits until he’s gone out for a piss, then jumps out of his bunk and squirts the entire remaining contents of the bottle out on Harry’s mattress and covers it with his duvet.

He makes sure to jump into bed and ‘fall asleep’ before Harry comes back. He still listens intently to the sticky sound of Harry crawling into bed five minutes later, and the lionesque roar of frustration that follows.

Oh, sweet schadenfreude.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes at the feel of something tickling his toes. At first he thinks it’s Cleo so he kicks out a little. When it still doesn’t stop, he grunts and tries to shift over onto his stomach, but then a sharp pain jabs at his leg. “What the hell…”

He rubs at his tired eyes, blinks a few times and then realises what’s going on; his leg is caught between ridges in the fencing of his bunk. His foot is dangling out over the edge and there, at his toes, stands Harry. Of course. With a bottle of-

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

Harry bursts into the loudest, most intentionally screechy laugh and drops the bottle of ketchup to the floor. “You know, I had to sleep in the top bunk last night. Even had to throw all of my clothes in the hamper cause you creamed all over my bed.”

Louis maneuvers his leg out of the fencing, grabs the end of his duvet and rubs the ketchup off his feet. Who the hell even does that? Who the hell has the time or the energy or the fucking lack of imagination to go to the troubles of going out and fetching a bottle of ketchup and taking it back in just to smear it all over someone’s foot?

It isn’t even the ‘prank’ that offends Louis. It’s the fact that Harry actually genuinely thinks that constitutes as a proper prank. It isn’t a fucking prank. It’s child's-play. It’s just being a dick.

“Okay - _one_ ,” Louis says, straightening himself up to look down at Harry, “ketchup on my foot? Ketchup. On. My. Foot. Really, Harry? _Really_?”

Harry just laughs again.

“ _Secondly_ ,” Louis hisses, his voice going shrill from Harry’s aggressive lack of a reaction, “I did not ‘ _cream_ ’ all over your bed. I _put_ cream all over your bed. _Please_ , do not try to flatter yourself with that pathetically intentional mix-up.”

Harry stares at him for a moment, then snorts and turns away. “Just stop talking, you sound like a pretentious mughead.”

“Wow,” Louis exclaims, because that’s just- that’s - that is rich. That’s fucking billionaire-status. “ _Wow_. Nice. Real nice. Acting above it all seconds after you’ve _just_ smeared ketchup all over my foot. That is just… wow. Not hypocritical at a-”

“ _Please_ ,” Harry cuts through, spinning around to look at him again, eyes wide and brows raised, “just _please_. Shut the _fuck_ up.”

Louis’ jaw drops, just a little.

If it had been said in fun, if there’d been just the tiniest slither of tease or sarcasm to find in Harry’s expression, it would’ve been all right. Louis would’ve retorted and that would’ve been that. But getting told to shut the fuck up by something near a stranger - completely straight-faced, completely serious - it’s a little much first thing in the morning.

When Louis can’t come up with a response, Harry just raises his brows at him again. “What, you’re hurt now?”

Louis _has_ a retort, he _does_ have one, he _always_ does, but it’s stuck somewhere in the back of his throat, right behind whatever’s just clogged it up.

“Jesus,” Harry sighs, rolling his eyes at him. “And don’t follow me around the house today, I might be having friends over.”

Then he just leaves.

And Louis sits there, first thing in the morning, in a town he doesn’t know, with ketchup between his toes and some hard gooey shit stuck in his throat, and feels a little bit… stumped.

 

*

 

Two hours after the ‘shut the fuck up’-incident, Louis begins to feel a little lonely. Back in Donny, this never happened. Loneliness wasn’t even a concept to him back then. Whether surrounded by friends or all by himself, he never really gave it any thought. He had his own room. He had his Xbox and the raggedy old footie-goal in his backyard. He had Cleo. He had Stan right across the street.

He had options.

If he wanted to be with friends, he’d go and be with friends. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t. Now, he doesn’t have any other option but to sit here all alone and that just feels so inherently claustrophobic.

Well, there’s still Cleo.

When he can’t possibly stand sitting in that tiny little kid’s room for another second, and his dad and Anne still haven’t come back from their check-up trip to the new house/construction site, and Harry has been hogging the poolside for three hours straight, Louis decides to take her for a long walk.

The streets of this part of Holmes Chapel are nice. Cosey. The sun is just sharp enough that it verges on too much, but Cleo seems to love it; bopping around and greeting every by-passer with eager bumps up their legs. It’s all very nice here, really. There’s nothing wrong with his town, if he’s honest. In fact, if Louis were to be completely objective, he’d say this place is nicer than the area he used to live in back in Donny.

Still. Every house that looks like his old one, every tree that carries just the slightest bit of resemblance to the one at the end of his childhood street, every guy who’s nose bends just a tiny bit like one of his old mates’, it makes him so terribly homesick. Not in any desperate way, like when he was six and got sent up to his half-stranger of a grandfather’s house for three weeks straight. Not in any way that makes him feel like crying or screaming or just jumping on a train and saying ‘fuck it all’.

It’s worse than any of that. It’s just hopeless. Permanent. Unchangeable.

It’s so terrible that he even finds himself feeling irritated with Cleo for not giving his misery company. “Oblivious little cunt,” he mutters to her. She just licks his ankle and gives a happy little jump. “Oh, I wish I were as stupid at you,” he sighs.

And he does. He wishes he were like a dog, just taking everything at is comes; no sentimentality, no fond memories stuck in his head, no thoughts on constant repeat. Just food and his owner and the world in black and white. It’d be so nice; being stupid. At least for right now; when being smart enough to know what’s going on feels like the most crushing thing in the world.

He loses track of time somewhere in the process of his mind. Maybe he gets lost, but if that’s the case, then he’s unlucky enough to randomly find his way back again.

When he does, he hears it before he even reaches the garden path; music. It isn’t coming from inside the house, but rather somewhere right around it; the poolside maybe. It’s loud, much too loud, and it’s good, much too good. It isn’t something his dad would ever allow if he were home.

“Hello?” Louis calls out as he slowly opens the front door. Cleo runs through his leg and inside, right up to a group of boys slouched against a wall, all carrying at least one alcoholic drink, if not more.

Louis steps in warily, glancing over at the clock; 9 PM. He’s been out for over four hours.

“Harry!” he yells, but it immediately drowns in the thump of the bass blasting in through the wide-open patio-doors across from him.

Groups of boys and girls are hanging around in the living-room and the kitchen, even in one of the bathrooms. Most have accumulated out poolside, a good part already in the actual pool. Louis can’t pin Harry down inside and doesn’t feel much like going out and looking for him, so he fishes his phone out of his pocket and sticks it in the charger instead.

The second it awakens, he’s got the answer to all of this turmoil.

**dad - might be a couple hours. complications at the house.**

**dad - dont wait around for us today, just go explore town if u want.**

**dad - anne and i are staying at the new house tonight, sorry.**

**dad - hope youll be ok. pizzas in the freezer. we’ll be back sometime tomorrow. love you**

Right.

Someone bumps into him as he’s crouched down at the charger, making him fall flat on the floor. “Oi, watch your step!” he yells, but the bloke just laughs and walks on. Cleo comes running to his feet, not to help him, but to whine at him because the music and the people are making her anxious. Poor little puppy, Louis thinks, while vividly imagining himself strangling Harry with his bare hands.

He unleashes her and lifts her into his arms. He fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and heads out of the house again. Luckily, the front yard is devoid of any drunken party-goers for the time being, but Cleo still shakes at his chest. He leans back against a bush, scratching at her neck to soothe her, then takes a long drag of his fag to do himself the same favor.

He’s not the kind of fifteen-year-old who’s never been to a party before. He’s not unused to the yelling and the drinking and the jumping around. In fact, he’s only been away from Donny for two days and he already misses it. But watching all of these people, all of these unfamiliar faces, being so familiar with one another, like Louis is - _was_ \- with his Donny-friends, it’s so damn depressing. Small towns like Holmes Chapel, like Doncaster, like any little place where you meet people in kindergarten and stick with them through life, they’re no good for teen-aged new-comers.

Sure, you can come in and made a few new friends, but chances are you’ll either be stuck with the people who - for good reason - had no friends before you came, or you’ll be lucky enough to be let into a good gang, but still always feel a bit like an intruder, someone who has to ask 'what’s that?' every time someone mentions one of the many great memories you weren’t part of. Fact is, Louis will never have what these mates have with each other. He’ll never have what he had with his Donny-friends here. Those friendships, which are perfect, wonderful, unconditional - provided you live right around the corner and always have, of course. Those friendships, which are built on the basis of having known one another all of your lives. Unless he suddenly turns into a genius and invents a time machine, he’ll never be able to have that again.

As he stands there, sinking deeper and deeper into his state of permanent solitude, he doesn’t even hear the person trying to break it.

Until they tap him on the shoulder. “Mate.”

Louis’ head snaps up at the touch. It’s sad, but he’s only just realising that he hasn’t been touched by another human being all day. The bloke isn’t really his type, - brown hair gelled back, a hipstery scarf around his neck and a built like he spends most of his free time training for a bodybuilding contest - hell, he isn’t even really the type Louis would just be mates with, but he’s human. He’s human and he looks around the same age as Louis and he’s talking to him. He’s actually _talking_ to him.

Louis stares at the bloke far too widely for far too long.

The blokes friendly smile turns into a concerned frown after half a minute. “Mate, are you all right?”

“Yes!” Louis blurts and shakes his head to snap himself out of his head. “Yeah - no, yeah, no, I’m good. I’m - what’s - eh-”

The bloke nods at his cigarette-pack. “Was asking if I could bum one? Like, six times.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, no, of course.” Louis fumbles to open the pack without dropping Cleo to the ground, but ends up emptying every last fag onto it instead. “Oh shit, that’s just - that’s - brilliant, innit. Fuck me, that’s…”

The bloke laughs. “Chill,” he says and scoops the cigarettes up in both hands in one swift movement. “No worries,” he grins and takes Louis’ pack to refill it for him. “No need to cry over spilled fags.”

Louis gives a breathy chuckle. “Thanks.”

The bloke shrugs a shoulder, grabs a fag and hands Louis back the pack. “I’m Joseph,” he says.

“Louis.”

He nods, then moves his gaze down to Cleo, who’s wriggling manically at Louis’ chest. “And who’s this?”

“Oh,” Louis hitches her up a little so Joseph can get a good look at her pretty brown eyes, “this is Cleo.”

Joseph ruffles her head, just like she hates it, and Louis lets him. Someone’s _talking_ to him. “She’s adorable,” Joseph says.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees proudly, “she’s only two months old.”

“Aww,” Joseph coos.

He stays mesmerized with her for all of three seconds, then rests back against the bush and mutters, “got a light?”

Louis lights his fag for him and overthinks how to keep the conversation going. God, desperation for social interaction does really have a terribly counterproductive way of turning you into an awkward sod. “So… ehm… friend of Harry’s?”

“Yeah.”

And that’s that. Great.

“I’m not,” Louis blurts.

Joseph gives him a weird look. “What?”

“No, I mean, I - I’m not _not_ a friend of Harry’s but - or, well, I suppose I-”

“You’re his stepdad’s son, aren’t you?”

Oh. Louis feels his shoulders drop. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Louis,” he replies, and at first Louis thinks he’s being questioned, but then Joseph adds, “Harry said that’s his new stepbrother’s name.”

Oh. Oh, _no_. “Been talking about me, has he?”

Joseph gives a snorty little chuckle that says it all. “Bit.”

 _Bit_. Great. So he’s already been slagged off to half of Holmes Chapel and he hasn’t even started school yet.

“Well,” Louis sighs, flicking his fag to the ground and hitching Cleo up again, “I’m going to try and see if I can put this one to bed.”

“All right. Well, it was nice to meet you, Louis.” Joseph offers an apologetic little smile.

Louis takes it. “You too.”

He turns and makes his way back up to the house, but then Joseph yells out; “hey, by the way!”

Louis stops with a sigh. “What?”

“Uhm,” he shrugs a shoulder and kicks at the ground, “you know, uhm… Haz is sort of easy to affect. In general. But he never hates anyone for long. I’ve never seen him be proper angry with anyone for more than, like, a couple of days.”

But that's still just not fair. “I didn’t even do anything to make him angry with me to begin with.”

“No, I know you probably didn’t, but - but, like I said, he’s sort of easy to affect. Even if it wasn’t really you who affected him.”

Louis rearranges Cleo at his chest and gives Joseph a sceptic once-over. “That’s fine, but it still doesn’t make him any less of a prick for hating me for no reason at all.”

Joseph chuckles a little. “No. No, I know, but - look, I’m not saying he’s right in how he’s treating you. I’m just saying that with Harry, there’s… there’s always a reason behind stuff. He never dislikes people just to dislike them. He never _really_ dislikes anyone, actually.”

“So, what? I’m just the exception that confirms the rule, then?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, mate, listen to me, will you? I’m saying that it’s probably not really about you, whatever it is that’s gotten him cross.”

“Well.” Cleo sticks her little claws into his collarbone, “ _ah fuck_ \- well,” Louis repeats, nudging her paw away, “don’t really know what to do with that, but - thanks anyway.”

Joseph smiles. “No problem. Hope to see you around.”

“Yeah. Right, eh - you too.”

Louis gives an awkward nod in conclusion, then turns and weaves his way through the bungalow and into the kid’s bedroom. To his incredible luck, there’s no one in here at the moment. He snatches the key from the loo and locks himself in just to ensure that he won’t get jumped by a drunk stranger in half an hour. Hopefully, Harry will get so plastered he falls asleep in the pool and drowns - or, well, maybe something slightly less extreme.

He realises that his luck isn’t as great as he’d thought, though, when he finds a huge fresh cum-splattering in his bunk. Brilliant. Who the hell hooks up this early on at a party and comes all over someone else’s mattress? Whatever happened to at least having the common decency to finish in a sock or a condom - or another person, for that matter.

Louis crawls down the ladder and takes the bottom bunk instead, thoroughly inspecting it for suspicious stains beforehand. He draws Cleo in bed with him and curls up under the duvet, cuddling her close.

It takes him over an hour to fall asleep, and less than three hours after he finally has, someone wakes him up again.


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes at the sound of someone banging down the door. It takes him a few seconds to realise the person is also screaming and, from the sounds of it, kicking at it.

“What the hell,” he raps, checking on Cleo, who’s sound asleep on the pillow beside him, “hang on a second.”

The music which he somehow managed to drown out earlier on, at least enough to fall asleep, is off now. The drunken yells, the beer-pong howls and the occasional vase or glass smashing, have all stopped. It’s quiet now. It’s pitch-black out. The party is over.

But not for Harry, apparently.

“Open, fuckzsz szzake, open the dooor!”

“Yes, give me _second_ , will you,” Louis hisses, dragging his languid body out of bed and padding over to the door.

It takes him a minute to unlock the door, and through that entire minute, Harry is banging and punching at it like he’s being chased by an ax-murderer.

“What the fuck?” Louis says as the first thing when he finally manages to rip the door open.

But Harry looks like he might not be in a state to comprehend his words. He’s hanging in the doorway, swaying uncontrollably, eyes half-lidded and pupils so dilated his eyes are basically black.

“Fuckin’ hell, mate,” Louis mutters, taking three long steps backwards, “you reek.”

“What the fuck are you locking the fucking door for,” Harry hisses, and his vodka-breath is so strong it stings Louis’ eyes, even with three feet’s distance, “no one ever fuckin… fuckin… locksz that door, you shouldn’t… and i’ve been szzgoing- looking all over for… cuz i thought you were fuckin' gone or something, man.”

Louis backs up until the back of his thighs touch to the bed and Harry follows, so intoxicated he’s lost all sense of personal space.

“And, sz’like… you weren’t like… you cant just like, s’like, then you’re just gone, like, s’not, you cant…” he slurs, stepping so close that Louis has to cock his head back against the edge of the top bunk to keep his eyes from watering up.

“Fuck, mate. You _stink_.”

Harry wipes at his wet mouth with the back of his sleeve, then tries to take a step back, but stumbles into the dresser instead and makes the bed-lamp crash to the floor. He doesn’t even notice. “You can’t just like, just like… cuz i thought you’d left and told my mum and stuff and like… sz’not… sz’not cool, Louizs… if you’ve.. and I’ve been,” he throws his arms around himself in huge, unsteady circles, “all around the houszee and… i thought you’d run off.”

He loses balance and falls backwards, but ends up miraculously saving himself from colliding with the floor by knocking into the other bunk-bed and steadying his back against the ladder.

“You thought I’d left?” Louis asks, when Harry seems to be somewhat static, “and told your mum that you had mates over drinking?”

Harry throws a hand out, his eyes rolling around his head. Louis takes it as a yes.

“I hadn’t, I’ve been in here sleeping,” he says, as clearly as he can to be sure Harry actually comprehends the words, “I’m sorry I locked the door, but people kept coming in and they were scaring Cleo.”

Harry seems to understand the information, or at least enough of it that he doesn’t question Louis again. “All right, but… but like, sz’not… you can’t… but,” he clutches his stomach and then burps so hard that the stench of his breath makes it all the way across the room and into Louis’ nostrils, “fuck, I’m so pissed.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, rubbing at his nose, “what did you do, chug an entire bottle of vodka?”

This time, Harry doesn’t seem to hear him. Instead he bucks his knees in some attempt to get into his bottom bunk, but lands on the floor in front of it instead. He throws his arms up on the bed and spends a pathetic few minutes dragging himself onto it. A gross goopy sound emerges as he rolls onto the mattress.

“Oh my god,” Louis exclaims, “did you not change your sheets since I-”

Again, Harry doesn’t hear him. He rolls around, faceplants in sticky lotion and then groans out loud and tumbles off the bed.

Louis sighs. He crosses his arms over his chest, too irritated to even consider helping him out, and too entertained to stop watching.

Harry crawls over to the ladder, hauling himself up to stand on a loud groan, then rips angrily at his shirt and pulls it off. He has already discarded his trousers before he came in here for some reason, and now he’s attempting to climb the ladder. The poor raggedy bunk-bed creaks and whimpers under his weight as his big feet continue to slip at each step and he stops every other second to pull his pink heart-patterned boxers up over his arse-crack again.

Louis bits his lip over a grin. “Need a hand?”

Harry doesn’t hear him, and the next second, he actually manages to reach the top bunk all by himself. Louis is just about to feel impressed with him, all things considered, but then Harry makes a weird gurgling sound, grabs the top-handles of the ladder and bends in half. Piss-yellow, bitter-looking liquid spews from his mouth and all over the bed. He stops with a cough, burps and then pukes again. Twice.

Louis just stands there for all of it, wide-eyed and speechless.

Then Harry finally stops puking and groans at the state of the bed he was about to lie in. He looks like a little kid who’s just stepped on one of the toys his mum told him to put away ten times and now feels like the entire world is against him. “Oh no…”

Louis crosses his arms over his chest. He’s just about to tell Harry that he’s made his bed and now he’s got to lie in it, but then Harry looks over at him with the crooks of his wet mouth so downturned that Louis can’t help but feel a twinge of pity. Poor little drunk boy. “Come down from there, Harry,” he sighs.

Harry stumble-slides down the ladder and ends up on the floor, head between his knees. Louis checks on Cleo again. She’s slept through the entire puke-show, the lucky little bastard. Louis can’t say as much for himself. Luckily, he’s seen enough of his mates puke their guts out - albeit, usually with their heads buried nicely in the toilet - and he’s never been sensitive about it.

“Stay there,” he tells Harry, who just groans in response.

He goes through the house, which has been absolutely trashed, and manages to find a bucket in the laundry room. He grabs a towel, which looks like it’s been used for hair-dying, and decides that Anne probably won’t mind it getting used for the purpose. He wets a kitchen-cloth as well, before going back in the kid’s room to find Harry now flat-backed on the floor, clutching his stomach and groaning like a baby.

“All right, sit up,” he sighs, crouching down beside him. Harry obliges, with the help of Louis’ arm around his shoulders, “do you need to puke more?”

“Not right now,” Harry rasps.

“Sure?”

“M-hm.”

Louis looks him over and decides to take his word for it, because he puked so much before he can’t possibly contain any more liquid. “If you do, the bucket is right here,” he says anyway, “use it. Seriously. Use it if you feel you need to puke again.”

Harry gives a weak nod.

“All right.” Louis hands him the wet cloth, but he drops it right out of his hand, so Louis picks it up and wipes his mouth off for him instead. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself, and switches to the towel, drying Harry’s chin and chest for sweat and spit. “How are you? Stomach, is it-”

“Sz’okay,” Harry slurs.

“Okay.”

Louis sits with him for a second, scouting the room. There’s one bed drenched in lotion, another in puke and a third with a cum-stain on it. Unbelievable.

“Wait here for a second,” he tells Harry, laying the towel out on the floor and placing Harry’s head down on it.

He goes through the house, searching for a bed or a couch or just a fucking rug for Harry to lie on, but everything has either been soaked in stuff, drenched in goo or occupied by a drunken stranger. Even Anne and dad’s bed upstairs has four people passed out on it.

“Well,” Louis says, coming back to Harry, who’s lying with his eyes closed, massaging at his temples, “do you mind sleeping on a cum-stain?”

“Whatever…” Harry drawls.

Louis nods and heads back to his own bed, but stops for a second and turns around. Harry can’t even fucking crawl without collapsing at every second step. How the hell would he ever make it up the ladder again?

“Ehm…” he says, clutching the bridge of his nose, “right. Well, you can, uhm - just… come here.” He reaches over and claps Harry on the shoulder, then scoots under his own covers, lifting Cleo onto his chest and presses himself as close up against the wall as he possibly can. “Come and sleep here, then.”

Harry nods and begins to waddle-crawl over to Louis’ bed.

“- _bucket_. Bring the bucket!”

“Yeah yeah… I’ve got it…”

“All right.” Louis turns to face the wall as the mattress dips behind him and Harry tries to take his entire pillow. Louis yanks it back and tries to get comfortable in the tiny bed. “Lie on your side for _fucks_ sake, Harry.”

“But my stomachszz….”

“ _Lie on_ _your side_.”

Harry relents, rolling onto his side, but his sweaty back still presses up against Louis’. Louis manages to get just an inch or two of distance between them, pushing himself so close to the wall that his nose gets scrunched. “And grab your bucket the second you start to feel queasy,” he says in a weird nasally voice, “okay?”

Harry gives a throaty drawl in response.

“Seriously. The _second_.”

“Yeah…”

“Good,” Louis sighs, yanking at the pillow that Harry has tried to steal again and pressing his nose back into the wall, “you absolute _mug_.”

“Yeah…”

 

*

 

The morning-sun coming in through the blinds wakes him this time, light and warm against his eyelids. And something else. Something wet. Sloppy. On his neck. “What the…” he shifts a little and realises he’s got Harry’s big body plastered around him. He’s even laced his own fingers up in Harry’s.

He quickly unravels them and tries to shift closer to the wall to get some distance. But then he feels it again; wet. Sloppy. Licking up the side of his neck.

“What the fuck, Harry,” he hisses. He shifts out of it, whips around and looks right into a big pair of irresistibly beautiful eyes. “Oh. Oh, sorry, baby,” he sighs and pulls Cleo onto his chest, “you can lick me all you want,” he says and adds, “well, not _everywhere_ , we all have boundaries, don’t we, sweet pea?” She licks into his nostril. He chuckles and pulls her back a little, scratching her neck to make her purr happily and nuzzle into him, “promise me you don’t do that to all the boys. You’re not that kind of girl. You’re daddy’s little angel, aren’t you?”

“Oh, if daddy only knew,” someone drawls rustily. Great. Harry’s awake. He rolls onto his back, untangling his legs from Louis’ and grins at him. “She tucked herself between my legs and sniffed my crotch just before.”

Louis shifts closer to the wall, even though it isn’t physically possible. “No, she didn’t.” He turns his attention back to Cleo, lifting her up a little, “you didn’t, did you? You’d never go and sniff that filthy boys smelly crotch, would you? No, you wouldn’t.”

Harry chuckles softly, then coughs terribly for a minute straight. “Shouldn’t have drunk that much last night.”

“No shit. Is the puke-bucket filled to the brim or?”

“No, I slept through the night, I think. Niall said I couldn’t drink as many tequila shots as him and I can’t remember shit from then on. Did you take my clothes off and pull me in bed with you?”

Louis ignores the question. “Who’s Niall?”

“One of my mates. Irish. Ridiculous laugh. Attached to his girlfriend like a Siamese twin. You’ll meet them.”

Cleo jumps onto Harry’s chest, the little traitor, and licks a fat stripe up his cheek. He giggles at her, dimples popping all around, and he looks unfairly good for someone who tried to beat an Irishman in the art of binge-drinking just last night. “You feeling better?” Louis asks, while discreetly trying to pull Cleo’s bum back on himself.

“I don’t know,” Harry drawls, all attention on the puppy who has apparently just abandoned Louis completely for a prettier younger model, “can’t remember how bad I was so how would I know if I’m better?”

Louis snorts and rolls onto his side, facing the wall again. He scratches at a stain in the paint, maybe an old piece of chewing-gum, and wonders whether Harry has been coming to this bungalow since he was a child. Been chewing gum and sticking it to the wall, breaking into his mum’s liquor cabinet and puking in the bunks, hanging here with the mates he still lives right around the corner from now.

“I have a dog too, you know,” Harry says then.

“What?”

“I have a dog. A little puppy like Cleo.”

Louis rolls around again to see if he’s lying. He can’t tell still, because Harry won’t take his gaze off of Cleo. “Why isn’t she here?”

“She’s at my gran's place because that’s where her mum is. But when we move into the new house, I get to take her home and have her.”

Somehow, Louis’ irritation with the puke-spewing puppy-attention-stealer gets lost in the way his voice goes soft when he talks about his puppy. “What race is she?” Louis asks, reaching over Harry’s belly to stroke Cleo’s soft fur.

“Teacup Pomeranian,” Harry says proudly, “she looks like a cotton ball.”

“Cleo’s a Pomeranian too. Well, half-breed anyway.”

“But she’s not a teacup.”

“Well, no, she’s a dog.”

Harry barks a laugh. Cleo gets a little startled by it, or maybe she just loses interest, and jumps off of him and out of bed, onto a new adventure.

Harry turns his gaze to Louis, looking awfully serious suddenly. “I, uhm,” he says and rests his big hand on Louis’ chest, tapping at it, like he’s having trouble forming his next sentence. All Louis can think of is how oddly natural it seems to him to lie this close with another bloke, especially considering the fact that they aren’t exactly friends. “I’m sorry about… these last couple days,” he mutters when he finally finds his words.

“Right.” Louis tucks his hand under his pillow, unsure of what else to reply, but Harry looks at him like he’s still waiting for more, so he ends up tacking on; “it’s all right.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Not, it’s not,” Louis agrees.

Harry chews on the side of his mouth, fiddling with the front of Louis’ shirt for a second. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like he’s still a bit uncertain, but all Louis can see is the fact that one of his brows is messed-up. Without thinking, he reaches over and fixes it in the right direction.

What surprises him the most about it isn’t that he did it, or that he didn’t stop himself halfway there. It’s the fact that Harry seems completely unfazed by it; completely natural. He really is oddly comfortable.

Then again, Louis thinks to himself, maybe he doesn’t know Harry half as well as he decided he did when he hated him yesterday.

“I forgive you,” he says, “for being a prick to me.”

“I forgive you back.” Harry smiles, much too wide, much too coquettish, much too pretty for someone who just woke up, “for creaming all over my mattress.”

Louis laughs.

Harry clutches his temples.

“Headache?”

“Hang-over,” Harry murmurs, but then smiles and shrugs a shoulder as he moves his hand over to rest on Louis again.

Then he starts to look like he’s thinking again. He does that alot, Louis realises; thinks before he talks. Louis could learn a thing or two from that.

But it does drag on for a while. “Are you all right?” he asks, when the impatience begins to get on his nerves.

“Yeah, no, yeah,” Harry blurts, and Louis regrets pushing him, because his words sure as hell don’t make much sense when he doesn’t plan them out for three minutes beforehand. Then he says; “it’s just, like… uhm. I don’t know if this is, like… this isn’t an excuse or anything, because I’ve been really rude to you, but… so, uhm… like, I guess it’s just sort of an explanation. To you. If you want it.”

“Ehm…” Louis says, because it takes him a second to comprehend Harry’s rambles, “sure?”

“All right, so, like… uhm.”

“‘ _Uhm_ ’. That _is_ a good explanation.”

Harry chuckles. “No, uhm… uhm, like… so this week, right? This week, uhm - well, no, actually - well, the week before last week, my mate Joseph came and told me that he and some of the other lads had found a cheap deal for a trip to Budapest. Like, a proper lad’s trip with all of the mates. And we haven’t gone on one of those before, because we’ve never been old enough to be allowed, but… now, two of our mates are eighteen, so they could take us all and get us booze and stuff. And my mum said yes to me going at first, but then she realised that Gemma was going on her college trip and stuff, and that the Budapest-trip would last until the day before yesterday. So she told me I couldn’t go.”

Oh. “Because of me?”

“No, I mean,” he tries, but then he sighs and smiles a little, “yeah. Yeah, because - well, you know, you don’t know anyone here, so she didn’t want you to feel alone when you came to live here for your first week. And I get that, that makes sense and that’s why i feel shit for making you feel alone anyway. But I guess I was just a bit bitter about not going, cause I’ve been looking at all their pictures and all the fun and… you know how it is. But, so, like… I guess I took it out on you.”

Louis nods slowly. All right. He’d probably have done the same. No, he’d _definitely_ have done the same. But - “still not an excuse for telling me to shut the fuck up.” He adds in a smile, just to be sure Harry doesn’t get him wrong.

Not that it would’ve been an issue either way; despite what a prick he’s been, Harry does seem rather quick. The sort who picks up on the joke before you even tell it. The sort Louis likes to have around when someone oblivious sits in the middle of them and one shared glance can crack them both right up. The sort he’d be mates with, really.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again, “I didn’t mean to tell you that, I just,” he throws a hand out with an exasperated sigh that says it all.

“Yeah,” Louis smiles, “it’s okay now. Let’s just - let’s agree not to cream and ketchup all over each other anymore. At least not unless we’ve asked for it.”

“Oh, you asked for it,” Harry grins, “your foot was just hanging there, fuckin’ begging me for it.”

Louis rolls his eyes. There’s a stupid smile on his lips that won’t seem to fade. He moves his gaze away from Harry and up at the bottom of the top bunk instead. It helps.

“And, uhm,” Harry says after a bit, “Joseph said he spoke to you. Told me you were really cool. So you shouldn’t have locked yourself in here, I mean - if you felt left out. It seemed like you made a good impression.”

Wow. He’d be lying if he said he weren’t surprised that the bloke he spoke to for two minutes outside good that good of an impression of him. He’d be lying if he said he weren’t flattered. He’d be lying if he said he weren’t the tiniest bit offended at Harry assuming that he locked himself in the bedroom because he felt left out. “I only locked myself in here because Cleo was getting scared,” he says. “I really don’t mind a party. I was just - she got scared. I can hold my own, you don’t have to worry about introducing me to people in HP and shit, I really - I’m not a shy person or anything. You don’t have to make sure I make friends. I didn’t feel left out.”

Harry smiles. “Okay.”

“Yeah. I just don’t like when she gets whimpery because of all the noise. Or people barging in. Had to lock the door.”

“Mhm.” Harry’s gaze rolls up to the top bunk and he’s still smiling a little, when he says, “that’s another great thing about having a dog, innit?”

“What?”

“You can use them for anything. Help you exercise. Help you pick up girls…” his gaze rolls back to Louis’, “help you lie to yourself.”

And just like that, Louis hates him again.

 

But, not really.

They spend the day cleaning up after the party. Despite the fact that he’s the one with a pounding headache, Harry does most of the work. Gathers every last drink and bottle and takes them down to the recycling bins. Changes all of the sheets, even the ones on Anne and his dad’s bed, just to be on the safe side. Fixes the couch and scrubs a stain off the rug with rubber-gloves and a pink hair-band on like a proper housewife. Vacuums and sweeps all the floors. Washes Louis’ clothes for him and teaches him how to make the shower-faucet go so loud no one will hear him wank.

Louis tries to tell him to relax for a minute and maybe have a Paracetamol and something to eat, but he won’t really listen. Guilt does have a lovely way of doing that to you, he thinks as he steps out of the shower after a nice wank and heads to the fresh-cleaned kitchen to get himself a snack; overpowering everything else. Even a horrible hangover.

He doesn’t mind it, really. If what Harry needs to do is clean the entire house with little to no help in order to clear his conscience,  well - then Louis will just have to relax back and accept it. However much it pains him.

“Done,” Harry says, sauntering into the kitchen at three in the afternoon. “And I just got a text from mum. They had to drive up to Donny to pick some shit up that your dad needs from storage, so they might not be back before tomorrow.”

“Oh. All right.” Yesterday those news would have crushed him. Today, they’re - they’re all right, he supposes. He’ll survive another night, just the two of them. “What do you want to do about dinner?”

“Pizza.”

“My kind of man.”

Then Louis finishes making his sandwich, turns around and actually sees Harry. And. Well. He’s the emperor with new clothes. He’s every kid ever in every nightmare about going to school. He’s wearing his birthday suit. He’s giving old John Thomas a good airing out.

Basically; he’s starkers.

He rattles on about something about pizza, but for the first time in his life, pizza doesn’t have the power to grab Louis’ full attention. Harry’s just standing there, pale and red on the shoulders. Pudgy at the hips and ripped at the core. Thin around the calves and strong around the thighs. Starkers.

But of course, that’s not what really grabs Louis’ attention either. What grabs it, fucking steals it away from anything around him, around _it_ , is, of course, John Thomas himself. It’s not hard, not even a little bit, and yet it’s so thick Louis can’t believe his own eyes. It’s big. No, it’s huge. No. It’s pretty fucking _massive_. And not only that, it’s - it’s just about the best looking cock Louis has ever seen in his life - and that’s saying alot, considering ninety percent of the cocks he’s seen have been professional ones.

But, fuck, it’s so _big_.

“... All right? Louis? Is that all right?” Harry asks, startling him out of pervatory deafness.

“What? Yeah. No. What?”

“That we’ll wait an hour so?” Harry says, frowning at him, “with the pizza. We’ll wait. Cause I’m not hungry yet. Okay? Or are you?”

Louis blinks. “What?”

“Are you?” he says, and then moves a little, the baby-arm below his waist swinging right with it, “are you hungry?”

“Fuckin’ _starving_.”

“Oh. Okay, well, we can call them now, I can always eat,” Harry says and then turns. His bum’s not too bad either.

Louis rests his elbows back on the kitchen counter, swallowing hard.

“What kind of pizza do you like?”

“Uhm… whatever, eh- just whatever you’re having,” he rambles, before a slither of sense seeps into him somehow, “uhm, wait no, I’m actually not hungry yet, I’ve just made a snack. Can we wait with the pizza? Like, an hour or so?”

Harry turns around and full-on frowns at him. “Mate, you _just_ said you were starving.”

“Oh. Yeah, well, eh…” it just hangs there. It just hangs there and it’s - christ, it’s so _big_ , “changed my mind.”

“All right, then…. why are you acting weird?” Harry glances down himself and then it snaps. He looks up again, “oh shit, sorry, are you not cool with the naked thing? I don’t even think about it, I just took a shower and I like being naked, but - are you not cool with other guys being naked around you, because if you aren’t then I’m fully-”

“No no. No, it’s fine, it’s… it’s, it’s, brilliant.”

Harry frowns a little more, then fakes a smile and says; “all right. I’m naked all the time. But I get that some people don’t like it, so you just tell me if you mind it. I don’t care either way. I just figured, well… we’re both men here, right?”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, forcing himself to meet Harry’s eyes and smile, “of course. We’re both men here.”

Not a doubt about it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey 
> 
> as you might have noticed, i changed the name of the fic. I deciced 'Ew' might be a tad too short and too hard to find when searching. my friend said that loads of random shit would show up if people tried to search for the fic if the name was just 'ew'. So i changed it. :) '
> 
> and sorry in advance for a veeery chatty-chatty chapter

Louis lets out a long sigh of relaxation. He's lying on the huge watermelon-floatie somewhere in the middle of the pool, the sun warming him like a kind in a womb and making his eyelids look orange. Here, there are no worries. No clouds, no noise, no nothing in the world that could possibly take away from Louis' total state of ease. 

Or - well, there's Harry.

He's lying on the floatie with Louis, legs slung over Louis' and one hand splayed out on him, just resting there, fingers occasionally twitching or scratching at his belly. 

Louis peeks a glance at him. He has no worries, not even Louis. His hair is half-wet still, nearly black in it's wetness and smoothed back from his face. His plump lips are a deep dark pink and his lashes look long and black, clinging just a tiny bit to the skin underneath his eyes. His jaw looks strong from his angle, when he's lying back like this; completely natural, completely relaxed. He isn't even trying. It's so incredibly unfair that you can't even help but feel offended with the fact that he doesn't even care. Can't even help but feel a a tiny bit pissed with him for the fact that it's so incredibly impossible to look away again, once you've you've allowed yourself not to. 

Harry opens his eyes then. "Hey," he drawls, "what are you looking at?" 

"Did you remember to put sunscreen on your face?" Louis blurts, "you look a little boiled." 

Harry just rolls his eyes and leaves them closed again. 

Louis does the same, just to spare himself the sting of jealousy and arousal that comes with staring at someone with a face like Harry's for too long at a time.

God, he needs to get out of his own head. "I'm bored," he says, at a loss for better, "let's play a game or something." 

"Yeah, all right, uhm - 'fuck, marry, kill'," Harry suggests. 

"All right. You go first." 

Louis realises then that he's just set himself up for an entire game of picking between people he'd never be able to get it up for anyway. He hasn't quite found the right moment to slip into conversation that he likes boys to Harry yet, is the thing. They've spent the last three days attached at each other's hips, growing closer by the second. It's like they were stuck trying to push down a slide they were too big for at first and then they finally managed and they just slid right down into ridiculously easy friendship.

In fact, they've gotten on _so_ well, _so_ fast, that it feels a bit like it can't quite be right. Like, since it's gone so fast, that they're now close enough to snuggle - although he might have to attribute that one to the fact that Harry's just a naturally affectionate guy, but who knows - and to talk about real stuff and even better, to lie around without always having to talk, that it must somehow be fragile. Things that come easy, go easy, that's what they say, isn't it? 

And straight boys who are just naturally affectionate pull away from gay boys who are just naturally attracted to them, that's what they also say. 

It's probably terrible of Louis, but he just can't bring himself to run that risk yet. So he decides to just go a long with it, just a little bit longer. "All right, I've got them. Cheryl Cole, Natalie Portman and Frankie Sandford. Take your pick," he says, and then, for the sake of being 'straight, quickly tacks on; "the three hottest women in Britain." 

"All right, yeah, those are good," Harry mutters, "okay, I'd marry Frankie. Then I'd fuck Cheryl. And then I'd kill Natalie," he says, two hundred and fifty five years later. 

"Okay, that's - no, hang on - _what_? Kill Natalie? Natalie Portman?" Louis lifts up on his elbow to stare at Harry, "you know who Natalie Portman is, right?" 

"Yes, I know who she is, Louis," Harry sighs, "she's Jackie Kennedy." 

"No, she's the one from Black Swan." 

Harry just rolls his eyes at that, don't ask Louis why. "Anyway, it's a hard one, they're all hot and they're all skinny brunettes," he explains.

"Yeah yeah, but why wouldn't you marry Natalie Portman? That's like, the obvious choice. That's the go-to pick, that's the easy one, it's _right_ here." 

Harry half-opens one eye and grins at him. "Maybe I'm not an obvious kind of guy." 

Louis pinches him. "You should've fucked Cheryl and killed Frankie. Or the other way round, I don't know, but - but, either way, you should've gone for Natalie on the marriage front no matter what. She's way classier than the two other's combined." 

Harry flicks him on the belly-fat. "We're playing 'fuck, marry, kill', not 'who's the classiest?' - which, by the way, would be the lamest game in the world. I pick the hottest one for marriage so I can keep fucking them, then I pick the second-hottest for a one-time fuck and then I pick the third-hottest for a good old-fashioned slashing."

"What an extreme leap," Louis mutters, "- and that's a really superficial approach to the game."

"It's a superficial game," Harry says, and, before Louis can object; "my turn now." 

Louis lets the horrible decision making skills of Harry's go for now, dropping back on his back with an exasperated sigh. "All right, then. Hit me." 

"Okay, yeah, I've got them," Harry replies, three hundred and sixty seven years later, "Kendall Jenner. Emma Watson. And... wait, fuck, I forgot you've got to pick three, ehm... uhm..." he gives a nerdy preteen boy-chuckle, "James Corden. Sorry, couldn't come up with any more girls." 

Right. What a terrible shame. "All right, the marriage one goes without a say; Emma." 

"Ten points to Gryffindor."

Louis pinches him again. "And then I'll - wait, who was the other one? Kendall Jenner, that's right. Ehm... she's the one with the lips?" 

"No, she's the other one. The one who's a model." 

Louis digs his brain. "Okay, no, I think I know the one. Yeah. She's the only one with thin lips, right?" 

"Normal lips." 

"Yeah. All right. So... so, I'll... right, I'll fuck James Corden and kill Kenny." 

Harry nods. Then, many years later, he reacts to Louis' actual words. "Wait, _what_? You killed Kenny?!" 

"Yes, Cartman, and what's with the look? It's not _that_ much of a shocker, I mean, she's part of the whole Kardashian-thing, I don't want to get an STD." 

But apparently, that's offensive enough that Harry actually bothers to open his eyes. "No, but seriously," he goes on, "you'd fuck Kendall." 

"No." 

"Yeah, but - but, all right, forget the game and her family and that - you'd fuck her. You would. If Kendall Jenner came and spread her legs right here and said that you could have it - you'd fuck her. You would." 

"No." Not even if he tried to. 

But Harry won't hear it. "Louis, shut up, be serious for a second. She's a twelve out of ten, you would _so_ fuck her if you got the chance." 

"Harry, shut up, she's," well... "she's just not my type." 

Harry stares at him incredulously, then shakes his head and plops down on his back again. "Nope," he says resolutely, "nope. I call bullshit. I pull the old pull-shit card. Bull to the shit to the horsecrap."

"The fuck does that even..." 

"You're a guy," Harry hisses, and bloody hell, he's even lifting both hands to gesture wildly, "you're a _guy_. Kendall Jenner throws herself right here and gets on all fours for you. Says you can have it. You don't fuck her? You tell her no and go and fuck James Corden's hairy arse instaed? Pfft. Stop lying, mate, it's pathetic." 

"Stop bangin' on about this, mate, it's pathetic." 

Harry flicks his gaze back on Louis, raising his brows so high they nearly touch his hairline. "Kendall Jenner gets on her knees and opens her mouth so fuckin' wide you can see all the way down to her fuckin' cunt and-" 

"Would you stop with the graphic examples, _please_. I've told you ten times; she's just not my type. And come on, you wouldn't even think she was all that if she wasn't famous. Just cause someone's on a billboard doesn't mean they're _that_ gorgeous in real life." 

Harry scoffs, his eyes fluttering closed again in irritation. "She's not _not_ hot in real life. No one's _that_ good with Photoshop. I bet you'd still lose your jaw if you met her. You'd fuck her in a heartbeat if she walked in." 

"Rape, though." 

Exasperated sigh. "Shut up, you know what I mean, if she asked for it - _actually_ asked for it, with words. You would. You _so_ would." 

"Don't bank on it." 

He shakes his head again. "Nah. Don't buy it. _Nah_ ," he says childishly, "either you're lying to seem cool - which only makes you seem less cool - or you're just pretty fuckin' gay." 

Right. This. This would be the moment. He has it right there on a silver platter, the perfect opener served to him. So he takes it. "Well... funny you should say that..." 

Harry catches it so fast Louis doesn't even have to consider finishing the sentence. "Oh." 

"Yeah." 

And suddenly, the hand Harry has rested on Louis' belly feels as heavy as a ton of bricks. The skin on skin that they've so casually been sharing. The cuddles, the naked strolling around, all of the stuff that Harry has been doing without a second thought; it feels unnatural. It feels like lukewarm soda or melted ice-cream when you're just too hungry to care. It feels like having someone you're in love with cuddle up to you only because they're heartbroken over somebody else. 

It feels like headlines: 

 

**GAY BOY LIES ABOUT GAY BOY-NESS BY OMISSION. STRAIGHT BOY FINDS OUT AND GETS CRIPPLING PTSD**

' _my poor baby, he can't even use the boys' locker rooms anymore. Brings back too many memories. I don't think he'll ever be the same_ ' - Anne Cox, mother of trauma-patient.

 

**BOY STRANGLES STEP-BROTHER TO DEATH - GETS OFF ON THE COUNT OF HAVING BEEN MANIPULATED INTO CUDDLING BY STRAIGHT BOY WHO WAS REALLY GAY BOY WHO WAS REALLY OBVIOUSLY JUST TRYING TO BONE HIM**

' _I've never seen anything like this. In all of my fifty-five years in the force, this is the worst case of deep physiological manipulation I have ever had the misfortune of coming by. My heart goes out to the family. You do not come back from a case like this without deep lasting scars on the soul_.' - Cop who recently retired after losing faith in straight boy-humanity.

 

**STRAIGHT BOY FINDS OUT THAT OTHER STRAIGHT BOY IS ACTUALLY GAY BOY AND DROWNS HIM IN FAMILY POOL**

' _Fu_ _cking faggots_ ' - supreme court judge. 

 

And then, somewhere in the middle of all the headlines, Harry just mutters; "okay. Well, then I'll just give you male celebs instead."

Right, then. "Okay..."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay. Well, but - but, okay," Louis fumbles, "okay, well, ehm - well, it's my turn to give you people."

"Yeah, I know. Get the fuck on with it, Stammers."

Louis stares at Harry's closed eyes for several seconds. That easy, then. No muss, no fuss. Easy, peasy, lemon-

"Sleazy."

"What?" Louis croaks.

"You staring at me when I've got my eyes closed all the time," Harry murmurs, "lie down, you're blocking my sun." 

Right. It takes Louis a long while - not quite as long as it takes Harry to form any normal sentence, but a pretty long while nonetheless - to come up with celebs this time. He just can't comprehend. He just can't wrap his head around the fact that - that - well, perhaps he should just shut up and be grateful. This was probably the nicest, least melodramatic, dragged-out coming out-experience he's ever had. Done and done with. Easy, peasy, lemon-

"Queasy."

"What?"

"The sun, it's makin' me queasy. If you don't get on with it soon I'm gonna go in the water again." 

Right. "No. No no, okay, I - no, I've got them. Kate Upton and, ehm, and, eh... those two twins, what are their - right, Ashley and Mary-" 

"Wait. No. Do men. Do men instead, give me some male celebs. Since you had to do some female ones before," Harry says, "it's only fair." 

Fair. Right. "Okay. Okay, ehm... oh yeah, okay, I've got a good one; Five Direction. So, so, you pick any three of them to fuck, marry and kill and then leave out two that don't matter enough to count in." 

"Okay, yeah, that is a good one. By the way - am I the only one who thinks they should've named themselves One Direction?" 

Louis sighs. "There are over seven billion people in the world, Harry. You are _never_ the only one." 

"Not, but really - they're not five people going in different directions. They're a boy band; they're going in _one_ direction. It's right there. _Right_ there. Why didn't anyone think of it?"  

"Well, they're not named 'Five Directions', they're just 'Five _Direction_ '," Louis reasons, but begins to scrunch his nose up halfway through, "which doesn't even make any fuckin' sense at all. I relent. You're right. Should've gone with One Direction." 

"That's what I'm saying. It's right there. Skinny-jeaned airheads." 

"Right," Louis mutters. He kicks at Harry's foot. "Come _on_ , Harry. What's your pick?" 

"Hm... well, uhm..." Centuries pass. "Okay, I've got it now," Harry says, "I would marry Ian, because - going by your logic - he seems the classiest. He seems like he'd be a good steady guy to have around. Oh, and then I'd fuck the guy with the arse."

"Lewis." 

"Yeah, him. And then I'd... then I'd kill Barry, because... I don't know what it is, but he just seems sort of annoying." 

Louis shakes his head in disappointment. "You make a terrible gay. No taste. No taste, what so ever." 

"Heeey. I'd make a fabulous gay." 

"Gays don't actually refer to themselves as fabulous outside of telly, please tell me you know that." 

Harry just snorts in response. "Anyway," he says, "what's your pick then, Mr. Professional Gay Man?" 

"Well, first off, I'd kill Zain because he seems like a flake." 

"Oh. Oh yeah, I forgot he was in there. Nice choice." 

"Thank you. Thank you very much," Louis pats Harry's hand, "and then I would... I would marry Barry because it rhymes and then fuck Lewis because - well, let's be real here, that guy is just ridiculously good-looking." 

"S'what I'm saying. Reckon I kinda look like him, actually." 

"Not even remotely." 

Harry gives an offended scoff and jumps up on one elbow, "what, so you're saying you wouldn't fuck me?" 

Louis rolls his eyes. Oh, straight boys. "No, I'm not saying I wouldn't fuck you and your frail ego. I'm just saying I'd _rather_ fuck Lewis." 

"Pfft," Harry slumps down again, fixing his non-existent sunglasses back in place, "go fuck yourself." 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

They spend the first half of the day at the pool and the second drenching Harry in after-sun and aloe vera. Around six, Anne and dad come back with Chinese-food and profuse apologies.

“It’s all right,” Louis says and links an arm around Harry’s shoulders. Harry winces at it and Louis removes it again, but keeps his smile on, “we’ve been doing some real brotherly bonding, haven’t we, Hazzy?”

“No one calls me Hazzy,” Harry groans, trying to reach for the lotion again without cracking his skin apart, “but yeah. Yeah we have, Sugartits.”

“No one calls me that,” Louis notes, “well, except for my ex-boyfriend, but he was a daytime-television addict with a foot fetish.”

Anne gives a weird smile. “What?”

“What?”

“What?”

“Who?”

“What?” 

“Nothing.” Louis puts his smile back on. “We’ve been bonding while you guys’ve been off, that’s what I was saying.”

“Oh. All right. That’s lovely, boys. I was so afraid you boys wouldn’t get on well, but I can see you’re like two peas in a pot already. That warms my heart. It really does.”

Louis widens his smile. His jaw is beginning to ache. “Mine too, Annie.”

“No one calls her that,” Troy says, walking into the living-room with plates and take-out boxes, “well, except for me,” he adds and slaps her arse to make her screech and giggle.

Harry and Louis share a groan of disgust. Old people finding love is like childbirth; the most miraculous thing in the world, but you really don’t want to see it happen.

They watch telly and eat. Gemma Skypes from Manchester and Harry outs Louis without a second thought, then apologies manically when he realises and almost starts to cry. Anne just smiles and asks if anyone wants dessert.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to do that, I-”

“Harry, shut up, it’s fine,” Louis sighs, “better you tell her than me, I’d only end up getting so obsessed with finding the perfect moment that I’d eventually blurt it at the most inappropriate time possible.”

Harry chuckles a little, then winces.

“Need some more lotion for your face, Pinky?”

“I’m not the one who sleeps in a Five Direction t-shirt,” Harry mutters, but takes the lotion when Louis hands it to him anyway.

 

*

 

“It was a present, you know,” Louis says a couple of hours later, when he’s lying in his fresh-sheeted bottom bunk, wearing the pink Five Direction-shirt, “the Five Direction t-shirt.”

“Hey, I wasn’t shaming you,” Harry replies from his top-bunk, “I like it. Makes your eyes pop.”

“My eyes aren’t pink, I’m not an anime-character.”

“No, but the pink makes the blue pop out, I - shut up, you know what I meant.”

Louis chuckles and pulls Cleo up from under his duvet to give her a kiss goodnight. He lies still for a few seconds, then forces himself to say what he's been thinking all day; “And, ehm… thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Being so chill about… everything.”

It takes a few seconds before Harry responds. “Uhm… I wouldn’t exactly say I’ve been chill these last couple of-”

“No, I mean - I mean, about the, ehm… the gay thing.”

“Oh. Oh yeah, no sweat, mate. I’ve got gay mates, it’s really not a big deal. I don’t know why you’d even assume it was, to be honest.”

“No, I didn’t expect you to, like - have a problem with it or anything, but… like, when I tell people, at least the first time, they usually have a bit more of a… a reaction, I suppose. I don’t know, never mind, I’ll just shut up and be thankful that you’re chill.”

But of course, he’s just set himself up for exactly the opposite of what he should’ve just stayed quietly thankful for.

“So… when did you know? That you were?”

Christ. Here we go again. Well, at least it’s not the first time he’s gone through a round of the customary coming out-questions. “I always knew I found guys attractive. But I suppose I realised I _only_ found guys attractive when I was around… maybe… thirteen-fourteen or summat.”

“Right.” But of course it doesn’t end there; “what happened? Was it, like, a thing that happened or did it just snap one day?”

“I - well… it’s kind of a long story.”

“I have time.”

God. “Well… all right, then,” Louis sighs, “when I was around twelve, I got my first girlfriend. Hannah. She was a sweet girl and we always had a laugh together. I didn’t mind… snogging her and stuff. It was fine. But when we reached around thirteen-fourteen she began to be more interest in… well, you know-”

“Shagging.”

“Yeah. That. And I - I thought; well, I’m a guy. I should be happy that she’s offering me sex, I shouldn’t feel apprehensive, I should just take my chance while I’ve got it.”

“So did you? I mean, did, uhm… _could_ you?”

Louis stifles a groan of embarrassment. “Yeah, I could, eh - I could do the job reasonably well, but, - well, she had this Five Direction poster above her bed-post.”

“Aaah, I see.”

Louis chuckles a little. “Yeah, so - uhm, and they were all in bathing suits on this poster, luckily. So we- well, whenever I had to finish she’d get on all fours and - to be honest, I think we were both looking at the poster. I wasn’t exactly the hottest lay - I mean, what with having to turn her around just to be able to reach the finish-line.”

Harry cackles. “I guess - I mean, I don’t know, I’m not a girl.”

“I reckon girls prefer it if you’re able to finish while looking at them. At least once in a while.”

“Could be right. So, what happened then?”

“We… well, we went on for a while doing our thing. It was all right. It was good enough for both of us at the time, I suppose. But ehm… Hannah, she - she has this really fit older brother-”

“Oh, I see. I see where this is going.”

Louis chucks an empty lotion-bottle at him. “Shut up and let me finish.”

“That’s what she sai-”

“ _Anyway_ , so this brother, he - well, maybe somewhere in my subconscious mind I’d only started dating Hannah because I fancied her brother. But I figured he was straight so I never really thought more of it. Until one night-”

“One fateful night-”

“- when Hannah wasn’t home, I had popped by to see her. Her brother was the only one home and he was sulking about his ex, so I sat around trying to cheer him up a bit. You know, let him cry on my shoulder. Cuddle me to feel better and so on.”

“You scheming minx.”

Louis grins to himself. “Yeah, well - I suggested we broke into his parents’ liquor cabinet. Again, for the soul purposes of helping him forget about his ex.”

“Oh, you absolute dog.”

Louis stifles a laugh. “I mean, I just wanted the bloke to feel better, that’s all.”

“Of course, of course, that’s all. Then what?”

“Well, we got drunk. And - I don’t know, I guess I admitted that I found him hot or summat, I can’t remember exactly what went down, but one thing lead to another and - you guessed it - we were snogging.”

“What an insane and unexpected plot-twist. Do go on.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “And then… we ended up shagging. And I was just - you know, I - it was just… I _knew_. I knew then. I just knew.”

A few moment's pass. After a considerable amount of time, Louis begins to feel unnerved by Harry’s lack of a response, but as if on cue, he speaks up right then; “just like that?”

“Just like that,” Louis replies without hesitation, “that easy.”

“And you guys just started dating after that?”

“No, I mean, that would’ve been kind of dicky to Hannah, wouldn’t it? Anyway, we woke the following morning and he basically told me he liked it because it got him off, but it wasn’t - wasn’t for him.”

“Oh. Bummer.”

“No, it was - it was all right, really. I didn’t fancy him that much, it was more of a looks-thing, to be honest. But it was nice to have tried it because it made me sure and that was the most important part. And so, the following day I broke it off with Hannah and went and told my dad and all of my mates that I was probably gay. Reckon my dad’s still a bit unsure as to whether it’s just a phase, but I suppose I don’t really seem gay so I get it if it takes a bit of time to be entirely sure. Can’t blame him.”

“You seem gay.”

Louis turns on his pillow. “Beg your pardon?”

“You said you don’t seem gay. I think you do. You do seem gay,” Harry says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Well, fuck you too.”

“Hey, no, what, why are you insulting yourself?” Harry exclaims, and it sounds like he's shifting around to try and see Louis' face. Louis presses deeper into the cave of his bottom bunk. Harry gives up, but continues his speech; “Nothing wrong in seeming gay. It’s just a fact; you seem gay. That’s actually internalized homophobia, Louis; getting offended that I said you seem like something that you are and you aren’t supposed to be ashamed of.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah, all right, Mr. Social Justice Warrior.”

“Nothing wrong in standing up for minorities and fighting for the neutralization of the word ‘gay’.”

Louis rolls his eyes harder. “You’re such a magnificent person, you know that? Rich, white, straight and still big-hearted enough to fight for us less fortunate.”   

“No sweat, brother. Love is love.”

Louis groans into his pillow and turns to face the wall. Harry doesn’t pester him anymore, but after a couple minutes, Louis still can’t help himself from turning again and asking; “but, uhm… just out of curiosity, eh - what about me is it that you think seems ‘gay’?”

“Well,” Harry drawls.

It sounds like he was already falling asleep, but Louis doesn’t care. Maybe he’s an internalized homophobic narcissist. Maybe he’s just insecure. Either way, he wants his answer and he wants it now.

Finally, Harry gives it to him; “just, like… like, your back, it - your lower back, it sort of arches. It arches a bit more than straight guys’ backs do.”

Louis regrets asking. He scoffs loudly. “You are just one big walking talking contradiction, you know that?”

Harry just laughs. “What, are you triggered now?”

“Piss off.”

“Piss off yourself. Nothing wrong in having an archy back. In fact, isn’t it kind of convenient? You know, for shagging purposes?”

“Isn’t it kind of convenient that you have so big blowjob-lips? You know, for choking on cock-purposes?”

“I suppose it is. Such a shame I don’t swing that way, innit?”

“God,” Louis groans and turns away again, “you are so bloody full of yourself.”

“Hey now, let’s not go to sleep angry, Sugartits.”

“I swear to God, I will cut you.”

Harry just laughs.


	7. Chapter 7

The following month flies by in the stress packing up and packing out, fighting about who gets which room and for the most part, just having to get used to being around one another every single day. Since it’s the summer holiday, the ‘family’ doesn’t get much more than an hour’s peace from each other a day - max. And, of course, once they’re finally done unpacking every box and assembling every new piece of furniture, Louis comes down with something.

He and Harry have been installed in the second-floor bedrooms, conjoined by a shared bathroom. Since Louis was too stubborn to give up on getting the bigger one, he’s now forced to accept Harry constantly coming in to use the Xbox and flatscreen that couldn’t fit in the smaller room.

Louis’ new bed is huge, Anne’s old kingsize one, and he can comfortably lie around in it, watching Netflix on his laptop while Harry slouches on the other side of it, playing FIFA, but it’s still annoying. What with the shared bathroom and the fact that Harry is able - and more than happy - to unlock the door from his side at any given time, Louis hasn’t had a wank in over three weeks.

And now he’s too ill to even attempt to.

Harry offers to give him some alone-time, but the fact that he can’t say it without throwing in a wink and a sleazy up-and-down-glance tells Louis that he’ll only come barging in on him mid-wank. Besides, he’s too ill to even attempt to.

“You sure you don’t mind me being in here, though? I mean, seriously, I _can_ go to my own room and be bored if you need some space,” Harry says, the night before they’re both supposed to be starting school again.

He’s lying where he’s always lying these days; in Louis’ bed, watching Desperate Housewives and fucking around on his phone. And Louis is lying where he’s always _forced_ to be lying these days; in his bed, watching the ceiling.

“No, it’s fine,” he tells Harry, even though it’s a half-lie. He wants Harry to go so he can have a wank and a kip, but he also wants Harry to stay so he can have Harry still be here. It’s complicated.

“But, like - if you need a wank or something, I really don’t mind-”

“Would you stop with the weird obsessing over me needing to wank all the time? I told you, I’m _fine_ ,” Louis hisses, while rearranging his blue balls in his joggers, “besides; I’m too ill to even attempt to.”

But when Harry leaves anyway, Louis decides he might as well give it a go.

He was right. About being too ill, that is. The second he gets his laptop up on his chest with a good video playing, his headphones in and a hand on himself, his body decides to set him into the worst coughing fit of his entire life. In fact, it’s so bad that he both scares Cleo enough that she jumps out of her bed and barks wildly, makes his laptop drop off his chest and onto the floor and has Harry running in a second later.

“You all right?!”

“Yeah…” Louis whispers, tears streaming down his cheeks, “I’m fine, could you - eh- could you turn that video off for me?” he manages, pointing to the laptop, where the headphones have fallen out, making the sound of men grunting and groaning resound through the room.

Harry gives an awkward nod and hits the Space-button with his toe. He lifts the laptop off the floor despite Louis’ voiceless objections, and gives the video a quick glance, before he hands it back to Louis.

“Stop looking at me like that, you dick,” Louis rasps as he slams it shut.

Harry scratches at his nose. “Wasn’t looking at you in any particular way.”

“Was so.”

Harry reaches over and puts a palm to Louis’ forehead. “You’ve got a fever.”

“It’ll go down by the morning.”

“I’ll get you some pills,” Harry replies. He disappears and comes back with two Paracetamols and a tall glass of water. “We didn’t have any cough medicine, but I’ll buy you some after school tomorrow.”

“No,” Louis says, forcing himself to sit up and take the pills, “I’m fine,” he insists, “I’m going to school tomorrow.”

“Hell no,” Harry laughs. He doesn’t even receive the glare Louis gives him, because he has turned his attention to Cleo, clapping and waving for her to come over. She doesn’t, because she needs her peace once in a while - just like Louis.

“Leave my room,” Louis hisses, “I need to sleep this off for tomorrow.”

Harry’s shoulders fall. “Louis,” he says, turning his head and resting a hand on Louis’ arm, “you are not going to school like this.”

“Exactly,” Louis wheezes, “which is why you need to let me be so I can sleep it off tonight.”

Harry sighs and gets off the bed. “As you please.”

 

* 

 

Louis goes to school the next day. For half an hour before he gets sent home by a teacher. Anne picks him up and has to empty one of her grocery-bags into the backseat for him to puke on because he can’t last the five-minute car-ride home.

“You sure you don’t want me to take the rest of the day of, love?” she asks, placing a huge kitchen-roll, a two-liter water bottle and a gigantic puke-bucket beside his bed.

“I’m good,” he whispers, not because he wants to whisper, but because the last of his voice abandoned him when he tried to argue the teacher who sent him home, “thanks for coming to pick me up.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says and wipes his sweaty fringe into place for him. He’s not blind to the fact that she’s taking advantage of his state to feel like a proper mum, but for right now, he supposes he’ll let her have it. After all, he did get puke on her expensive leather seats. “If there’s anything, you just give me a ring, sweetheart. You know my work’s just right around the corner. I’ve told them I have a sick one at home, they’re all right if I have to leave.”

“It’s all right.” He manages a little smile. “I’ll call you if there’s anything.”

She gives his hair a little ruffle and reciprocates the smile. “Good. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t ask me for anything. You can ask me for as much as Harry and Gemma can, you’re family now, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, and then pretends to be dozing off so she’ll stop talking rubbish.

 

*

 

When Harry comes home from school, he doesn’t say ‘I told you so’. He empties a bag of different cough medicines and nasal decongestants out on the bed and re-fills Louis’ tea-mug without a word. Louis thinks he might actually love him for a second.

Then Harry offers to help him pull his trousers down and put on ‘ _hot college-stud pounds straight roommate_ ’ for him, so Louis tells thinks better of it and tells him to fuck off.

Harry does, but only to chuck his clothes in his hamper. He comes back in nothing but boxers, crawls under Louis’ duvet and watches an entire season of Desperate Housewives with him. It’s cosy enough, until Lynnette gets diagnosed with cancer and Harry _literally_ starts bawling his eyes out.

“Oh my god,” Louis wheezes, “would you stop, _I’m_ the ill one.”

“Lynette has a fuckin' brain tumor, Louis, gain some perspective!” Harry cries, and then snots into one of Louis’ pillows.

Louis groans and turns to face the wall. God help him.

Harry turns with him after a couple of minutes, linking an arm around his stomach. Louis doesn’t really have it in him to tell him to fuck off this time. He’s a bit too… nice and warm.

They fall asleep like that; close. They wake up even closer. Harry bonks off school to watch the following season of Desperate Housewives with Louis. It’s all right. It’s quite nice. Harry is good at not talking too much. He’s good at bringing tea and water and tissues and he’s really good at cuddling. He’s got one of those big self-heating bodies that just lie there, wide and warm. He’s got one of those smells to him; one of those that seem familiar even if you hardly know him.

If Louis lets him sleep with him for another night, lets him wrap around him and scratch his scalp and draw circles on his stomach, well, then it’s only due to his fever-delirium.

 

*

 

After two weeks, being glued to the bed stops being funny. He knows every little stain or ridge in the ceiling like the back of his hand. He knows the exact amount of planks by heart. He knows everything there is to know about that fucking ceiling and not a single one about the town it resides in. He’s starting to forget what ‘the outside’ even feels like. Whether it even really exists or if it’s just a myth he’s made up in his delirious mind.

Fuck, he’s so bored.

“You seem a bit better though,” Harry tells him, three days into the third week of his bed-imprisonment.

They’re lying in the stinky sweaty sheets that Louis has been tangled up in for the past four days without changing, watching Desperate Housewives. Harry never mentions the smell - and it does smell, it really does. Last Louis tried to shower, he fainted and puked and decided hygiene was overrated. That was eight days ago. But Harry never mentions it. If Louis took his word for it, he’d say Harry does even notice it. He comes here every day after school, shreds his trousers and crawls into bed with Louis and rests his nose against the back of Louis’ shoulder as if it doesn’t reek like a homeless person’s scrotum. Louis loves him.

“Maybe you’ll be able to start school next week.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Harry chuckles and gives his hair a little ruffle. “Maybe you will. Maybe you’ll also be sent home half an hour into school and puke in my mum’s car again.”

“She told you?” Louis attempts at wrestling out of his arms.

Harry locks his arm around him it’s enough to make Louis give up on ever moving again. God, he’s lost all muscle mass. “She told your dad. Who told Gemma. Who told me.”

“So everyone knows,” Louis drops his chin to his chest, “great.”

Harry drives his fingers up from the nape of Louis' neck and into his hair. “They don’t mind. If you knew the amount of times I’ve puked in my mum’s car…”

“Then what?”

“Then you’d… then you’d, like, know it was, like, three times.”

Louis laughs. It jabs at his sore throat and he ends up wincing and coughing for three minutes after, but it’s still worth it.

“You know, you don’t have to lie around with me every day,” he tells Harry after a moment's thought. It’s so lovely. It’s so lovely of him to be Louis’ only source of social interaction these days. It’s also dreadfully boring, having to lie around with a stinky weakling when he could be out with his mates, Louis is sure. “You don’t have to keep me company all the time.”

“I’m not keeping you company,” Harry replies, “I’m taking advantage of the fact that you're ill so I can stay in the big bed and use the telly all the time.”

“Oh,” Louis twists his neck a little to look at him, “oh, so you’re just taking advantage of an ill person?”

“Yeah,” Harry grins.

“All right, well,” Louis turns again, settling back against his warm body, “I suppose I can live with it, then.”

Harry presses a smile into the back of his shoulder. “S’what I thought.”

 

*

 

On the Friday, Louis feels ready to go back to school. Anne doesn’t agree. Troy sides with her because she’s pretty and she lets him do that thing that makes him squeal through the house at one in the morning. Louis stays home for another day.

At 10 AM, Harry comes home from school and wakes him up.

“Double free period,” he says and plops down on Louis’ lap, “don’t have to be back for two hours.”

“Ace. Did you pop by the canteen?”

Harry sticks a hand into his bag and fishes a Red Bull and a chocolate-scone out for him.

Louis takes it, greedy and happy. The scone is still warm. “God, I love you.”

“Yeah you do,” Harry grins and fishes his phone out of his pocket. “M’gonna have an hour’s kip.” He puts the phone on the nightstand and shuffles under the covers, resting his big body between Louis’ half-bent legs and laying his head on Louis’ chest. “Slap me if I try to snooze my phone, I need time to have a shower before I go back.”

Louis rakes his fingers into Harry’s thick curls and uncaps his Red Bull on his teeth. “You've got it,” he mutters, trying to unwrap his scone without having to move his hand out of Harry’s hair, because Harry gives these soft little mhm’s every time he trails his nails across his scalp and that’s just too lovely to ever give up. “I’m going to school on Monday,” Louis tells him around a mouthful of scone.

“Yeah, I think that’s sounds okay,” Harry murmurs, as if Louis was asking for his permission and not just stating a fact. Louis lets him have it because his mouth looks so pink and soft right now. “You look much better.”

“Thanks.”

“You really do,” Harry says, cocking his head back to smile up at him. He reaches up and flicks a crumb off the side of Louis’ mouth, then pets his cheek, “your colour’s come back.”

Louis ignores the sudden additional colour that comes into his face at that, and untangles his hand from Harry’s locks to have a swig of his Red Bull and cool himself down. He glances over at the telly, then back at Harry, who’s fiddling with the label on his sweatshirt. “Want me to mute the telly if you’re gonna nap?”

“No, it’s - I mean, you can turn it down a bit if you want, but… I don’t mind.”

Louis chuckles and mutes the telly. He relaxes back a little and finds his phone somewhere in the sheets, scrolling through 9GAG while Harry dozes off on his chest.

 

“ _Eh_!” Harry suddenly blurts, twenty minutes later.

“What?”

“Ungh….” he murmurs, half-asleep and half-awake, “you dropped some of your drink down on my face.”

“Oh.” Louis wipes at Harry’s cheek without thinking, “sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, it’s all right,” he lies and rests back down, “it’s all right…”

A few minutes later, it still doesn’t sound like he’s sleeping. Louis resists the urge to chat to him, but when he pulls his phone off the nightstand and begins to check his messages, Louis can’t stay quiet any longer. He doesn’t get much chat. Whatever little conversation Harry can give him, he’ll take it. Force it, extend it and stretch it beyond what's fun.

“Who are you texting?” he asks.

Harry makes a grunting noise and doesn’t reply.

Louis ignores the slight sting of irritation and turns back to his own phone. He’s got a load of unanswered messages himself, but they’re all from his Donny-friends, trying to keep him up on all he’s missing out on. It’s meant to make him feel better, he’s sure, but it does exactly the opposite, so he hasn’t read through them in a while.

He glances back at Harry. He’s still glued to his phone.

“Is it a _giiiiiirl_?” Louis says, waggling his hip a little, in an attempt to be teasing instead of annoyingly nosy.

“Yeah,” Harry replies simply.

Oh. Well, that's - “who?”

“You don’t know her.”

Right. Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know half of what or who Harry does when he isn’t here in bed. It’s ridiculous of him, really. To have grown accostumed to the idea that nothing interesting goes on in Harry’s life outside the four walls of Louis’ bedroom. If that were the case, Harry would have a pretty fucking boring life.

He turns back to his own phone. Enough prying.

Then, after a minute or so, Harry presses his phone in Louis’ face.

“What?”

“Look.”

Louis blinks and takes the phone. It’s an Instagram account. A girl’s. Loads of selfies. _Loads_ of selfies. The odd food photo. Bikini pics where she arches her back so much Louis fears for the health of her spine. Group selfies that all look like the owner of the account has intentionally posted the one’s where everyone except herself are caught in an exceptionally unflattering moment. More selfies.

She’s pretty, he supposes. In an Instagram kind of way.

“What about her?” he asks, handing the phone back to Harry.

“What do you think?”

He sighs. “She’s all right. I mean, I wouldn’t know, you can never really tell with those photo’s, can you?”

“She goes to my school. She’s  _really_ hot.”

Oh. “Right. Well, there you go, then. No need to ask for my opinion. I wouldn’t really know anyway, would I?”

Harry shifts back into a comfortable position and lifts his phone back in his face.

That’s one thing about Harry; however lovely it is that he rarely talks your ear off, he also has a way of being just a tad bit too succinct. He’s the only person Louis knows who just ends a conversation by not answering at all and still manages to seem like the most polite guy in the world. He’s bloody annoying, sometimes.

“Are you trying to pull her or?” Louis asks, getting desperate.

“Been trying for like a month,” he murmurs, “but she had a boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“But not anymore.”

“ _Oh_.”

Harry shrugs a shoulder and flicks his phone off. “We got teamed up in a project for social studies class.”

“Well, that’s your ticket, innit.”

“Yeah, I mean - but, like, she’s _really_ hot. So I don’t know…”

Louis pinches his cheek to make him do that shy-boy smile that he does. “You’re really hot too.”

Harry beams up at him. “Aww.”

“So, are you going to ask her out or-”

“I don’t know, but - maybe,” he picks at the label on Louis’ sweatshirt again, and just when Louis is about to change the subject, expecting that conversation to be over, he says; “I mean, we’re working on our project at her place after school today, so I guess we’ll see.”

“What?” How does one not give that information right off the bat? How does one think that isn't vital to the conversation? It is not funny. It is not 'woops, haha, silly me'. It is but only, _fucking_ annoying. “Today?”

“Yeah. S’why I need a shower and a change of clothes before I go back. We’re going straight to hers after school. Her parents aren’t home till later on.” He smirks.

Louis swallows. “Right. Well, that’s promising, innit?”

Harry winks and pets his cheek. “Innit,” he echoes and throws one leg out of bed, “gotta go find a fresh pair of boxers.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I was thinking about just going commando, but in case we get that far, it might seem a little assuming. Wouldn’t want her to think I expected her to drop her knickers on the first hang-out.”

Louis scratches at his hoodie where it’s still warm from Harry’s head. “But you do?”

“I meaaan,” he replies, and because Louis knows him, he knows that that constitutes as a full response.

Two minutes later, the shower faucet goes off and Louis lies alone in bed again. Right.


	8. Chapter 8

He lies around in his own filth for a couple of hours, trying to stick to the lie he told himself when Harry left earlier; that he doesn’t feel all right lying around here all day for the soul reason that he has Harry to look forward to. When Gemma comes home from school and he jumps out of his own skin thinking it might be Harry for a second, he decides to drop the act and take a shower.

Once he's out, wearing fresh clothes and deodorant for the first time in weeks, he feels like a new man. One who hasn’t a single fucking thing to do with his squeaky clean self.

Gemma and Anne take pity on him and ask him along to to the beauty-salon. Louis makes a point out of acting reluctant, but he actually doesn’t mind it. Gemma took him once, when they were still in the middle of moving, and Anne, Harry and dad were attempting to assemble a non-IKEA dresser and words that should never be said to family - or anyone at all - were being thrown around the house like a Frisbee at the beach. He liked the place.

It’s not so much the ladies or the gossip or the little telly in the corner of a ceiling, showing daytime television on mute. To be honest, it’s the work. It’s the fact that the ladies who do hair have this incredible way of being able to gossip about what someone’s husband did with someone’s wife, while still braiding and cutting and gluing like their fingers are on auto-pilot. It’s the way the costumer’s look at themselves in the mirror for the first time after a particularly well-done job; the way they light up to a point that it isn’t even really the hair that makes them look like a new woman.

It’s the fact that he actually catches himself looking over an extensionists shoulder for forty minutes straight, trying to pick up on how she does it.

Of course, he doesn’t mention this to anyone. There’s only one male employee here and he’s the human embodiment of exactly the kind of gay Louis never wants to be; the kind who’s gayness seems to be his entire identity. If Louis actually voiced the fact that he finds hair- and beauty work fascinating, he'd run the risk of falling into that category. He can’t be that. He can’t be both the new kid and the gay kid and the new, gay kid who likes the idea of doing hair-extensions and highlights. It’s just too much all on top of each other.

Maybe in a year or two.

Anne gets her ends trimmed, Gemma gets her tape-ins re-installed and Louis gets a hungry elevator-stare from the gay male employee, and then they head out. Gemma forces Anne and Louis to go second-hand shopping with her, and after she's bought herself a nice dusty-brown fedora and a floral dress that smells like butterscotch and death, they find a cosy little place to eat dinner.

It’s 21 PM by the time they finally reach back home again. It’s been a wonderful day. He’s been _outside_. Without puking. It's been the best bloody day of his life. 

“So, I was thinking we could all go up to the- oh god, not again,” Gemma groans as they step out of Anne’s car.

“What?”

She shushes Louis and points over his shoulder. “Look fast, but don’t make eye contact,” she whispers.

He turns slowly. At first, he can’t pin down what it is that he’s supposed to be afraid of. The only human thing around is that weird mute kid who lives across the street and he honestly doesn’t seem like much of a threat. All he does is take his dog out for a crap fifteen times a day and stare longingly out of his bedroom window - which Louis only knows because he’s been staring longingly out of his own for the past three weeks.

“What is it?” Louis asks, turning back to Gemma, “that mute kid?”

“Mute?” Gemma frowns. “He isn’t mute.”

“What, yes he is? I tried to speak to him when we were moving in. Like, twice. Both times he did these weird gestures and didn’t reply.”

“Yeah, that’s Liam,” Gemma sighs, placing a firm hand on Louis’ back to guide him up the garden path, “or as we call him; Lurky Liam. He isn’t mute. He’s just... _special_.”

Louis casts a quick glance over his shoulder. The kid is picking up dog poo while staring directly into Louis’ soul. “Special,” Louis says and fastens his pace, “that’s putting it one way.”

“Yeah,” Gemma snorts.

“But why 'Lurky Liam'? Seems more like a 'Severely Socially Inept Liam' to me.”

Anne hears them this time, and Louis expects her to tell them not to speak about people like that, but all she does is beckon for Louis and Gemma to come inside and then closes he door soundly behind them. “He... _looks_.”

“He looks?” Louis echoes. “Looks at what?”

“People,” Anne near-whispers. She looks like something out of a bad horror-movie, “through….” she swiftly turns and closes the blinds for the front door, “windows.”

“Right… are you sure he-”

“Look, mate, I've caught him perving on me while I was changing like five times since we moved in,” Gemma cuts through, “fact is, all he’s missing are a pair of binoculars and a parka-coat and he’s set to win Creep of The Year. Kid’s a lurker.”

Louis turns to Anne for some sense. “Come on, you can’t really believe that, he’s the same age as me. Don’t you think he’s just shy or summat?”

“Maybe,” Anne says, forcing a little smile. Then she fixes the blinds a third time. “But remember to close your curtains anyway.”

“All right…”

They seem to be quite sure in their notion, but Louis is hesitant not to give the poor kid the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’s just a new kid like Louis. A really shy, really… _weird_ one at that. Maybe he’s just been staring out of his window because he’s lonely. Louis can’t look down upon anyone for that.

“How are you, darling?” he asks Cleo two minutes later, as he’s carefully closing his curtains, “did you remember not to pee in my bed while I was out?”

She doesn’t answer him, so he gives her a cuddle and then throws himself in bed. That’s when he realises someone is already lying on it.

There’, flat on his back under the duvet, with a bag of Doritos and an Xbox-controller on his belly, lies Harry.

“The fuck, mate,” he hisses, when Louis screams and topples off of him and onto the floor, “why would you throw yourself on me like that?”

“I didn’t-” Louis wipes angrily at the Dorito-dust stuck to his nice clean button-down, “I did not _throw_ myself on you. And why are you here? In my bed? No, why are you even home?”

“Because… I live here?”

Louis shakes his head and hauls himself off the floor. “Yeah, but you know what I mean. Why aren’t you at, eh-”

“Laura’s.”

“Yeah. Laura’s. Why aren't you at her place?”

Harry shrugs a shoulder. Louis waits a few seconds, but Harry then turns to his phone. Of course.

“Could you take your chips and go sleep in your own bed, please?”

Harry glances at Louis, then at his phone, then at Louis again. “Mate, it’s 9 PM on a Friday.”

“So?”

“So, why would I be going to sleep already?”

“Well, have you got a party you’ve got to be at or-”

“Yeah,” Harry smiles and pats the space beside him, “with you. Here. We’re having a SAW-marathon.”

Louis wavers for a second, but then Harry sticks his bottom lip out and pouts at him. He gives in and begins to climb over him. Harry slaps his arse in the process and Louis scolds himself for being so easy. But as he slips under the duvet and Harry links an arm around him and he rests his head on Harry’s soft sweater, he can’t really remember why he shouldn’t be.

“Why aren’t you at Laura’s?” he asks again.

Harry fiddles with the remote for few seconds, then mutters, “parents came home.”

“Oh. So things didn’t-”

“No, I don’t think it’s going to work out with her.”

Oh. Louis links a leg over one of Harry’s and cuddles closer. “Oh well. She wasn't into it or-”

“Reckon she’s hoping to get back with her ex, so… I don’t want to get in the middle of that.”

Louis pats his chest. “Smart lad.” He hesitates for a few minutes as Harry finds the first SAW-movie and puts it on, then asks; “so, are you bummed or?”

“‘bout what?”

“Not pulling her.”

The side of Harry’s mouth quirks up a little, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of the telly. “Who said I didn’t?” 

“ _What_?” Louis pushes half-way off of him. “But you just said you-”

“Said it wouldn’t work out. Didn’t say we didn’t have fun for as long as it lasted.”

Louis lies back down again, slowly, a little befuddled. “Right, so you guys- you, eh-”

Harry slides hand up to cover Louis’ mouth as his own smirk widens. “Shhh,” he says around it, “m’ trying to watch a movie here.”

Urgh. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies in advance for little stupid mistakes here and there, i don't use a beta. Hope you can read around it.
> 
> Enjoy :)

"What time did you say he was coming again?" Louis asks, standing at the end of the garden-path on a sunny Saturday morning.

Well, morning might be stretching it a little; it's half past eleven and he and Harry have been waiting for Niall for over thirty-five minutes. Louis has only been going to school for two weeks now, and most of that time he's spent running around like his arse is on fire, trying to catch up on everything he missed while being glued to his bed. The only people apart from Harry that he's actually spent any time with outside of class are Niall and Nat, when he and Harry share fries with them in the canteen. So far, they seem nice. Cool. Not afraid to offend. 

They also seem to be suffering from a chronic illness that makes them physically incapable of ever being anywhere on time. 

"Louis, that's the third time you've asked that, don't tell me you don't know the answer," Harry mutters from here he's sitting on the dusty pavement, fucking around on his phone, completely unaffected by - well, everything. As per usual. He's wearing a pair of beige cargo-shorts that Louis bought for himself, mistakenly thinking - _wishing_ \- he was bigger than he was, and a white polo-shirt, looking like the definition of the posh boy next door. He looks so sexy that looking at him might be worse than staring directly into the sun. 

Louis looks at him anyway. "Was Nat coming too or?" 

"Yes, you've asked that several times too." He doesn't even lift his gaze from his phone. He's on Instagram again. Louis can't tell whose it is, because all of Harry's girls look the same to him. The same hair, the same clothes, the same shameful yet twinkly-eyed expressions as they leave Harry's room at four in the morning. 

Louis resists the urge to slap the phone out of Harry's hand and moves his gaze across the street instead. He immediately regrets. Across the street, holding his pooping dog on a leash, stands Lurky Liam. What is Lurky Liam doing? You guessed it - lurking. Right now, he's lurking on Louis. Sometimes, he lurks on Harry. Sometimes Gemma, sometimes Anne, sometimes even Troy. He seems to be devoid of any sort of preference in his lurking, which only makes him all the more creepy. 

Louis makes eyes at Lurky and Lurky looks like he's been shot in the gut, caving in on himself and yanking at his dog's leash even though it's still mid-poop. For someone who so blatantly and shamelessly ogles people, he sure as hell doesn't take it very well when the favor is returned. 

"Poor guy," Harry says. 

"Who?" Louis asks, because he assumes it must be someone on his phone, since he never takes his fucking eyes off the thing. 

He's wrong, this once. Harry is staring at Lurky. "Poor guy," he says again, "he's like... _so_ weird." 

"No kidding. Bet you get it the worst, you're the only one in the house who walks around naked all the time." 

"I don't think he means it in a sexual way," Harry replies, "when he stares." 

Louis slaps him up the back of the head, because he's been staring directly into Lurky's eyes for over three seconds. "Don't," he hisses under his breath, "he'll turn you to stone." 

Harry rolls his eyes. Then he does the absolute stupidest thing. He yells across the street. "Hey, mate! How's it going?!" 

Louis' hand flies up to slap Harry again by default, but then Lurky actually replies. Sort of. "Uhm - uh - eh- neutral," he stammers. 

"Did he just say 'neutral'?"

Harry keeps his smile on, but mutters out through the side of his teeth, "yes, I think so, but now I'm afraid to look away. How do I end this?"

"Just look the fuck away and for the love of god don't answe-"

"That's good, mate! Liam, was it?" 

Louis facepalms.

Lurky nearly chokes. "Yeah -eh - ih - Liman, I - I mean, Liam." 

"Did he just forget his own-"

"Shut the fuck up, Louis, he's coming toward us," Harry hisses. 

Louis whips around, and fuck - he _is_. Pulling his poor mid-poop dog along by the throat, Lurky's heading right across the street, straight towards them and-

_Toooooot!_

"-  _Shit_!" Harry jumps onto his feet. 

Tires screech loudly, leaving deep dark marks in the asphalt as the car does it's best to stop before steam-rolling Lurky into a flat piece of chewing-gum on the ground. Behind the wheel, Niall and Nat are screaming, red-faced and hysterical. 

Finally, the car comes to a halt. It taps Lurky on the shoulder with about as much force as if Louis had flicked him with his pinky. 

Lurky still screams like he's had half his bones flattened out on the road. 

"Jesus Christ, mate!" Harry yells, running toward him, "you all right?!" 

Louis realises then that he's been standing still like an apathetic, completely un-empathetic bystander through all of it. He sprints after Harry and picks Liam's dog off the ground for him, even though it doesn't look the slightest bit fazed. It purrs happily and licks him all over the face. 

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my _bleedin' bloody fuck_ ," Niall screams, jumping out of the driver's seat and running over to them, "did I kill you?!" 

"No, I, it's-" Louis attempts, and to his luck Niall hasn't ever met him before so he can attribute the stammering to the near-miss car-crash this time, "I'm, eh - I-"

"Did you die?!" Nat screams, running over to grab him by both shoulders and ruffle him so violently it's nearly enough to finish the job the car failed at, "mate, did we hurt you? Please, talk to me, man, are you hurt?!" 

Liam swallows hard, his gaze flicking around like a terrified animal. "I'm - no, I - I-" 

Nat lets go of his shoulders, turning to Niall with eyes about to pop out of her skull. "He's broken, baby, we've broken him!" She falls into a crouch on the ground and slaps at her own head, "oh, I knew this day would come, I just knew I was going to break someone's brain one day! My dad was right all along, oh jesus, oh god, oh-"

Harry rubs at Liam's, doubtlessly sore, shoulders. "It's all right, mate," he says, both to Liam _and_ to Nat _and_ to Niall, "he has a stammer, but I think he's all right." He gives Liam's shoulders a little squeeze, "you're all right, right?" 

"Right," Liam manages. 

"He's all right?!" Nat exclaims, jumping into a standing position in one incredibly impressive movement, "oh, he's all right, oh, that's the greatest gift I've ever gotten!" she cries, and then grabs Liam's face by both hands and proceeds to plaster wet forceful kisses all over it.

Louis glances over at Niall to scout a glimpse of jealousy, but all he gets is Niall ripping Liam's head out of Nat's hands, only to begin kissing it himself, even his wobbling mouth. 

Harry steps back, sliding over to Louis' side. "Jesus Christ, huh?" 

"Jesus Christ indeed," Louis agrees, and then abuses the situation to rest his head on Harry's shoulder. 

Harry pets his hair. "Well, now we've got that one under our belts, I suppose. Seen Lurky Liam get hit by a car and then force-snogged by a guy."

"Remind me to cross it off my bucket list." 

Harry laughs and presses a kiss to his hair. Louis shoves him off so he can turn and hide the flush in his cheeks. 

Somewhere in the chaos of it all, and the elation that Niall and Nat share over not having 'broken' someone's brain, Lurky ends up getting invited/forced along on the trip. Perhaps they're still just a tad bit afraid that he'll come to his senses and sue them. Perhaps they're just fucking idiots. 

Either way, Liam ends up coming along, which means that he sits in the middle of Harry and Louis on the entire drive up to Harry's gran's place. What was supposed to be a fun road-trip with friends turns into a three hour-long car ride with two friends groping each other's thighs in the front seats and a guy in the backseat, functioning as one big human blocker of all possible conversation. Liam doesn't utter a single word on the entire drive, not even when directly asked a question. Louis even catches himself reaching half-way over to check his pulse a couple of times. This bloke. This weird, _weird_ fucking bloke. 

 

*

"So, ehm, what was your dog's name?" Louis asks Liam as they step out of the car, finally having reached their destination. 

"Ray." 

Louis gawks at him, because he actually replied with half a proper voice this time, but then he catches a glimpse of something even more gawk-worthy over Liam's shoulder; Harry's granmother's house. Or rather, mansion. 

It's ginormous. It looks like something out of The Great Gatsby, only in the '50 years later' sad follow-up documentary. It looks like that one abandoned house in the outskirts of town that your parents won't let you play in because you might have an entire staircase collapse on you. Bushes grow wild, brownish plants make a strenuous death-crawl up the front, shutters look seconds from falling apart. 

"What do you think?" Harry asks, slapping a hand onto Louis' back.

"It's... magnificent."  

"Yeah, I think so. Needs a bit of trimming here and there, but- _Grannyyyyyy_!"

He sets into a gallop and throws himself into the arms of a frail little white-haired lady. He looks like a Great Dane who's mistaken itself for a Chihuahua, trying to lift himself up into her arms. She gives his bum a weak attempt, but he quickly falls back on his own feet. She cups his face and pulls him into a ninety degree bend to press a kiss to his forehead. He beams at her like he's six years old. 

There's a stupid bit of fond stuck on Louis' face. 

He shakes it off and joins the others, walking up to the house. 

"Come along, boys," Harry's gran says to everyone, even Nat. She's wearing one of those scarfs which are big enough to fit around her entire frame - a sarong, Louis once heard someone call it - and she has an unmistakable odor of recreational gardening to her. Louis loves her. "You must all be hungry," she says. 

"Starvating," Niall says happily. 

"That's not a word," someone replies, but gets ignored by everyone. 

Harry's gran leads them up the stairs. Everyone consciously walks about ten times slower than they normally would so as not to seem rude and overtake her. 

"Come in, come in," she says breathlessly, once she reaches the top of the stairs, "a friend of Harry's is a friend of mine. Mi casa es su casa or whatever the french say. Anyway, they're all a bunch of snail-eaters and bisexuals, or at least that's what I've heard, but don't take my word for it, I've only ever been to Rome - but that was then and this is now. Oh, time flies, doesn't it? Well, you wouldn't now, you've all got a good ten years left in you- oh _fiddle sticks_ , where did I put my- Alan! _Alaaaaan_!"  

Louis keeps his smile on, trying not to let Harry see the complete and utter confusion in his head. Then Harry bumps his shoulder and chuckles. "Gran's a bit out of it. Think she lost the plot around the millennium." 

"Oh," Louis glances over at the old lady, who now seems to having a conversation with one of her vases, "she seems fine to me." 

"Yeah," Harry says dazedly, "she's my idol." 

"Mine too," Nat says and joins Harry's gran at the vase. 

A door opens from the other end of the front hall, and a guy who could be anywhere between thirty and fifty-five comes sauntering out. He's wearing a pair of Speedos, a knitted poncho and about a hundred different knickknacks in his dreadlocks. He looks like someone who's trying so hard to be Jamaican that his skin has actually begun to follow suit. Now, there's someone who might  _actually_  be comparable to a leather couch. 

Louis is just about to ask Harry who it is, when Harry squeals again; " _Alaaaan_!" 

He jumps the faux-Jamaican, fast followed by his gran and then they're all chitter-chattering incomprehensibly while Louis and Liam stand around and watch. Niall and Nat have run out into the back-yard without a word and, for the first time, Louis feels a bit like Liam might be the most socially acceptable person around. 

Then he realises that Liam isn't watching Harry and the lot; he's staring directly into the side of Louis' face. Louis steps away from him. 

Harry introduces him to gran's 'man-friend' - their words, not Louis' - Alan, and then gran escorts them out onto a patio in her humongous wild-grown back-yard.

She assembles everyone, except Lurky, who seems to have suddenly slipped away, thank god, and offers them all a brew of her homemade herbal tea. "It's the best cure for everything," she tells Louis as she splashes hot tea all over the table trying to poor some for him, "misery, joy, death, life and whatever else stubs your toe the wrong way. Cures it all right away, isn't it true, Alan?" 

"Yeaah," Alan drawls, grinning knowingly at Louis over his tea-mug. He's got be at least forty years younger than Gran. 

Harry kicks at Louis' foot under the table. "Drink," he mutters, "drink or you'll hurt her feelings." 

Louis lifts his cup, sniffing at the mysterious liquid. There seems to be a piece of lettuce just floating aimlessly around in it. He downs it anyway. It tastes like dental anesthetics. He has another four cups. 

 

*

 

Next thing he knows, which might be hours later due to the hard-hitting 'tea', it's getting dark out and he's being hauled into a Hot Tub. 

"Isn't it wiiicked?" Someone asks from across the world. 

Louis looks up to see who it was. He feels like he's sitting inside of a pudding. What was in that tea? Is there anymore where it came from? Anyway, it's Alan who seemed to have asked the question. He's sitting across from Louis, in between Niall and Harry. In fact, Louis seems to be sitting across from everyone, because Nat is sitting on top of Niall, snogging him as if they were the only two people in the tub. 

"Yeah," Louis says, and he isn't sure it reaches all the way across the tub because he can't even really hear it himself, "sooo wicked." 

He relaxes back in the warm snuggly pudding that is the hot tub, stretching his arms out over the edge of it and resting his head back. 

As he lies there, between friends and Alan, legs and limbs occasionally brush up against one another. One limb in particular - a foot, he's pretty sure - continues to brush up the inside of his leg. He opens one eye a little, glancing across the tub again. Alan is resting back like himself, eyes half-lidded, and Louis is pretty sure he isn't even really looking at _him_ , but rather the steam between them. Beside him, though, Harry is definitely looking at him. Smiling at him. 

Louis reciprocates the smile. 

Then the foot travels upwards. Up to his thigh. He jumps a little. Harry's smile doesn't weaken. Louis frowns at him. No reaction. The foot travels further up. Louis bends in on himself, trying to get away from it. It doesn't relent. 

And - something in him - coming from the right side of his brain or somewhere a little further south, no doubt - doesn't exactly _want_ the foot to leave, but- but this is weird. It's weird because it's Harry and it's weird because it's Louis and it's weird because of all possible moments he chose this one, right now. They've been alone in a bed together, un-interrupted for hours, more times than Louis can count and Harry's never even attempted to make a move. So why _now_? Of all times, why now, when they're surrounded by friends - and Alan?

Harry's foot reaches Louis' crotch. Louis loses track of his thoughts. Harry moves his foot around, just a little, and Louis jumps, just a lot.

He tries to steady his breath, tries to catch Harry's eye, find any sort of an explanation, any sort of _recognition_ at the least. Nothing. He has rested himself fully back now, eyes closed and face in total ease.

But his foot is still moving. It moves around, feels and pokes and- Harry is rubbing him. In a tub full of people, Harry is rubbing him hard. 

And Louis doesn't have it in him to move away. 

He clears his throat and tries to rest back again, just let it happen, see where it goes, but he can't stop opening his eyes and glancing over at Harry again. He's just lying there. So calm. So unaffected. Like it isn't even anything out of the ordinary. Like it isn't even that big of a deal. 

But, oh fuck, it is. It's getting him hard, too fast, knowing it's Harry, watching him lie there, knowing it's just between them, their little secret, right here, surrounded by unknowing people. He looks so hot right now, face wet with steam and sweat, jaw strong and lips plump and dark. So Louis just lies there. Watches him and allows it to happen. Tells himself it's the tea. Tells himself it's the steam. Tells himself this isn't exactly what he's been dreaming of for the past twenty nights in a row. 

Then Harry opens his eyes. Says something to Alan. The foot disappears from Louis' crotch. Harry begins to move. 

Louis straightens himself up, coughing hard. 

"Hey," Harry says, sliding right up to his side, "how are you?" 

"Good, I'm, eh-" he meets Harry's eyes, trying to speak without having to use his words. It doesn't seem to work. " _Too_ good," he adds lowly. 

"Too good?" Nothing. Nothing at all. "Yeah, m'not quite sure what gran puts in her tea, but it - it does do a nice job at relaxing you, eh?"

Louis opens his mouth to say something, maybe to be brave and just confront Harry, but then it happens; the foot. Back on his crotch. 

His eyes blow wide. It's _the_  foot. It's definitely the same foot. And Harry is sitting here, beside him, right here. The foot isn't coming from his angle, it isn't coming from him.

That's when he realises horrific truth of it all; it wasn't ever coming from Harry.  

Louis whips his head around. Alan winks at him. Oh god. Oh no. Oh- "my _fuckin_ '-" 

"What?" 

Louis slaps his hands over the edge of the tub, scrambling to get out. He slips and falls back in, twice, his shorts dropping halfway down his arse and he doesn't care, doesn't look back, just throws himself over the edge and rips at the grass to get away. _Out_. Now. 

"Louis!" 

He finds a chair somewhere in the dark, hauls himself off the ground and sets into a sprint. He's dripping wet, grass and dirt stuck to his clammy feet and he doesn't give a shit. He keeps running. _Away_. Now. 

Who _does_ that? What kind of a forty-something year old wannabe-Jamaican man-friend takes his leather-couch foot and rubs it up a fifteen-year-old boys crotch like that? 

At some point, he pins a cocoon-bed down and launches himself onto it, burying his face in the mattress. Oh god. Oh god no. Oh _god_ , and he actually thought- he actually let himself believe that- and what's worse it that he allowed it to happen. He just sat there and took it, ecstatic for just a little fucking _slither_ of something, because he's so _fucking_ pathetic that-

"Louis." 

It's Harry. Of course it is. 

Louis rolls over onto his back, but hides his face in his hands instead.

The cocoon-bed dips beside him and Harry has the audacity to splay a hand out on his stomach. "Louis," he says calmly, his S'es still a bit slurry from the tea, "why'd you run off on me like that, what's the matter?" 

"Everything," Louis groans into his hands. 

Harry unsuccessfully tries to pry Louis' hands off his face. "Louis, man," he chuckles exasperatedly, "hands. Off face. Hands."

"No." 

"Please." He nudges what feels like his stupid nose into the side of Louis' face, "pleaaase. Lou- _eeeh_..." 

God, he's so high. Or maybe he's just being cute, the terrible,  _terrible_ flirt. Either way, it works and Louis lets his hands slip off his face. "You know," he says angrily, "that Alan is a _fuckin_ ' pervert." 

Harry just laughs. "Why d'you think I moved over to sit with you? Guy had his hand on my thigh the entire time we were in the tub." 

Louis hitches himself up on one elbow. " _Seriously_?" 

"Yeah, seriously." Harry laughs again, all crinkly and pretty, eyes wide and bright, even in here in the dark. "Tried to slip a finger up by shorts so I thought 'yeah, that's where we draw the line, mate' and moved." 

Louis gawks at him. "The fuck..." he blinks a couple times, then decides just to say it; "he was rubbing me with his foot." 

"I don't doubt it," Harry grins, "was staring at your arse every time you got up earlier as well. Had to 'accidentally' step on his foot when he started licking his lips." 

Louis' eyes widen. Harry widens his own back at him, mockingly. Louis laughs a little. "Jesus Christ. Does your gran know he's-" 

"Gran doesn't know much of what goes on around her," Harry says with a shrug, "why tell her something to make her sad for tonight that she'll have forgotten about tomorrow anyway? He makes her happy. The way I see it, it's a case of 'what she doesn't know won't hurt her' and it's best left at that." 

He really means it. He's probably also right. 

Louis deflates on his back with a sigh. "Yeah, all right. Still a fuckin' pervert though." 

Harry cackles in response. 

They lie for a bit, cooling themselves down. Louis' cock is still being a bit of a slow prick, taking it's time to go down again. He decides to just lay here until it realises it isn't getting anymore attention for tonight. 

Then Harry drawls; "but, like..." 

Louis waits. Nothing. "But, like, what?" he hisses. "Finish your bloody sentences before you spew them out, you-"

"Why did you let him?" 

Louis' gaze flicks over to him. He's staring lazily up at the ceiling of the cocoon, completely unreadable. "What do you mean?"

Harry shifts onto his side. There's a little crease between his brows. "Like... why didn't you get out of the tub earlier? If he was rubbing you?" 

"Oh well, I thought it was you until you changed seats." It takes a second before Louis realises what he just said. Then his mind snaps into overdrive; "I mean, I - I - I thought you were just winding me up. You know, as a, as a - like, a joke. Just, I - I - like, like, gay chicken or something, just - yeah." 

Harry nods, but there's a frowny smile on his face. He isn't fucking stupid.

Louis' mouth feels dry.

Harry's eyes roll down him. The side of his mouth quirks up a little. "Mate," he grins, "you've still got half a chub on." 

Louis' lips part around a response, but he can't find the words. How do you- what do you say to that? "I-" 

Harry laughs and drops back on his back. 

They lie quiet for a while. Too quiet. Louis' heart is racing, his face so fucking hot he can't think, can't speak, can't come up with _shit_  to rectify  _shit_. All he has left now is the hope that this 'tea' has a memory-erasing effect as well. He'll need a complete bloody black-out to come back from this. 

Harry lets out a long sigh, his pink lips pursing slightly and - oh, he's so fucked. He is so, _so_ fucked no matter what. 

"I'm not- it's not," he tries again. His hand instinctively moves to cup Harry's arm, lay on his chest, touch him in _any_ way, but he quickly retracts it. "I'm not, like- like, it's just my body that's- it's just my bodily reaction, it could've been any guy doing it, doesn't matter, it's not about you, like... it's just... yeah." 

Harry opens half an eye and grins at him. "You done or you wanna keep rambling?" 

Louis sighs. _So_ fucked. "I'm done." 

Harry laughs a little, low and hoarse and so sexy that Louis just wants to suck it up and drink it, capture it and fuck it. 

He does neither. 

He lies back down and waits for Harry to say something. He doesn't, of course. And this once, he's right for it. There isn't really anything _to_ say. There's only waiting until they can wake up tomorrow and be awkward for a bit and then go back to pretending that Louis isn't so hopelessly in lust with him that he can't see straight. 

"So..." Harry does drawl, at some point, minutes later, "have you, like, been lusting after my foot this whole time or-" 

Louis slaps his arm. 

Harry catches his wrist. Puts it to his soft mouth. "Mhm?" he hums against the back of it, questioningly, and meets Louis' eye with a look of fake fucking innocence.

"Piss off." 

"Hm?" Harry hums again, light and teasing, "no?" he nudges his toe at Louis' calf, "nah?" 

Louis yanks to get his wrist back, but Harry's grip is tighter than expected. "Harry, _seriously_ , get over yourself. Stop makin' a thing of this."

Harry parts his lips over the back of Louis' wrist then. Louis' lips drop apart. Harry smirks, the self-satisfied prick. 

And suddenly, it isn't just tease, not to Louis. It isn't just bad enough that he feels mildly irritated and wildly embarrassed. 

It's fucking aggravating. 

He yanks his wrist out of Harry's grip, roughly. Then he punches him in the arm without thinking. Hard, much harder than he thinks he meant to, much harder than what could ever be excused as brotherly brawling. 

"Ow, what the fuck!" Harry hisses, rubbing at the sore spot and staring at him incredulously. "The fuck is wrong with you?" 

"You provoke me," Louis says, the anger enough to make his voice stay steady, "I react. You can't just - you don't have this, this fuckin' power over me that you seem to thrive off of-" 

Harry punches him back. Right in the arm, double as hard. 

Louis ignores the sting, snatching Harry's wrist before he has a chance to pull back. At a loss for anything better to do with it, he yanks at it, hard enough that Harry's entire body jerks forward from it, falling halfway over Louis'.

Harry wrestles out of his grip and pushes his hand down on Louis' chest to lift off him. There's a deep frown on his face. 

Louis pants angrily up at it. 

Harry's eyes roll down him, pissed and confused at the same time. By the time they reach back up to his face, there's something else there too. Louis can't pin it down, but it makes him lie still, panting. Waiting. 

Harry quirks a brow, something hard coming over his face. "All right," he says, and before Louis can ask why, forces his knee in between Louis' legs and splits them apart. He pushes his thigh down on Louis' bulge, dragging an involuntary hiss from his lips. "This is what you want, then?" Harry breathes. His eyes are still apathetic, cold like Louis' never seen them, "you can tell me if it is, I won't judge." 

" _Ah_ ," Louis hisses as Harry presses his thigh down harder, " _ah_ \- Harry, shut the fuck up. Get _off_!" 

"Just tell me, you might as well," Harry says, flexing his thigh to make Louis squirm and hiss, "cause you sure as fuck aren't fooling anyone either way." 

Louis stares up at him angrily, even as his face burns, even as his entire body screams for more and he's flushed hot-red down to his chest. "Get. _Off_."

"Just say it," Harry breathes, pressing his hand down harder on Louis' chest as if he weren't already having trouble breathing. His gaze falls for a second, downwards, and then he bites his lip and begins to rub his thigh down hard, fast, choppy movements. "Admit it, I can see it on you anyway." 

Louis throws his head back, forces it back up again, drops it, moans and swears, slaps out at Harry and gets his wrist pinned to the mattress. 

He can't even tell anymore. Whether Harry means it. Whether he just gets off on knowing that the entire world wants his cock. Whether it's a little bit of both. He can't even think, blood shooting to his cock with how fast and hard Harry rubs him, heat firing down his spine, making his eyes flutter closed, making him slap at Harry with his other hand, clasp the side of his unmoving face and snap his hips upwards for more. 

Then Harry laughs. Dry. Humorless. "Knew it," he says. 

Louis' eyes shoot open. Harry is laughing at him. Laughing like the only thing it sparks in him, seeing Louis get into it like this, is ridicule. Nothing more, nothing that really affects him, nothing he'd ever _actually_  do because he meant it. Nothing anyone with half a brain would actually believe that he meant unless they were so _fucking_ blind and stupid. It's all one big joke to him; the foot, the thigh... Louis.

" _Get the fuck off of me_!" Louis screams, livid with humiliation, and punches Harry in the shoulder.

He topples right off, swearing loudly.

Louis slaps his hands onto his own face. So _fucking_ stupid. 

 _"Fuck_ you," he hisses, scrambling to get out of the cocoon and away from Harry as fast as his legs can take him.

Then he sees something to make him stop in his tracks. "What the-" 

"What the _fuck_?!" Harry cuts through. 

He's seen it too. 

"Are you fuckin' deaf, mate?!" Harry shouts, "what the fuck are you staring at?!" 

Liam doesn’t reply. He just stands there. Lurking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to note that harry might seem like an incredibly terrible unlikable person so far, but he's not really all bad, so i hope you can bear with him so far 
> 
> And hope you found it hot regardless ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, sorry in advance for silly grammar-fuck ups and word-fumbles here in there. 
> 
> anyway, enjoy ;)

He wakes in a narrow bunk-bed and for a second he thinks he's back in the bungalow again. Then he remembers; Gran's place. The near-miss car-crash. The awkward ride up here. The tea. The hot tub and the perverted man-friend. The cocoon-bed. Harry. _Harry_. Harry, winding him up. Getting him hard. Getting him into it. Making Louis think, actually making him believe, just for a second, that it wasn't all him. The sound of Harry's laugh; dry, hoarse barks in his face. The way he looked, hovering above Louis, thigh pressed to his crotch, laughing at him. Making him feel more stupid than he ever has. 

He still feels it now. Tries to push it away. Shake it off, fix his fringe and dismount this tiny bunk-bed. The one beneath his own is occupied by Lurky. He's still asleep, from the looks of things. Louis doesn't want to check. 

He finds his trousers, thrown over a creaky old rocking chair. This room is small. Hot. There's light coming through from a loft window, revealing a thick layer of dust hanging in the air. 

He leaves, careful not to slam the door and run the risk of waking Lurky. How he even ended up picking a room with Liam, he can't quite fathom. Well, no, that's a lie, he _can_ actually fathom it, seeing as the only other alternative was Niall and Nat's room and he didn't much fancy the idea of being a night-long object in their relentless exhibitionist sex-capades. Of course, there was space in Harry's room too, but after last night's events, Louis fancied the prospects of lying next to him all night about as much as he does eating a bucket full of horse-shit.

He finds Nat hanging in a doorway a little further down the hall. "Hey," she says. She's purposely put her hair up in a bun so he can see the fresh hickey on her neck. "How are you?" 

"Good," he lies by default, resting back against the wall. "Bit of a head-ache." 

"Yeah. I'm sore too," she says, and Louis can hear on her voice that she's exchanging looks with Niall while she says it. 

He pushes off the wall again.

He finds a loo and has a piss, then spends around twenty minutes trying to figure out how to flush. He gives up and heads out again. 

"Hey," Harry says, coming down the hall at that exact same moment, because why wouldn't he be? Why wouldn't _everything_ Louis wants least in the world happen to him a million times more than _anything_ else _ever_? "How are you?" Harry asks. 

He's fine. He's _fine_. And Harry definitely doesn't have the right to come sauntering down the hall in nothing but his boxers, asking Louis how he is as if he actually gives a shit. Not after last night. Not after he intentionally, knowingly humiliated Louis without a glimmer of remorse. Louis feels sick just looking at him. And his abs. So sick.

"Fine," he mutters and heads on down the stairs before Harry can ask anything more. 

Downstairs, Alan is sitting in a lounge-chair, from the looks of it drawing up a sketch of a young male nude-model. "Hey," he says when he notices Louis, "how are you?" 

Louis reserves the right to ignore him and continues through to the front hall, where he finds Gran. She's watering a dead plant. "Hi, love," she says, "how-" 

"Fine," he says and pushes through the front doors.

He finds a bench and plants himself in it, crumbling in on himself to massage his temples. He doesn't really have a head-ache. It's more of a brain-combustion. The kind you get when too much bad shit has happened all in one night and you have to wake up the next day and not kill yourself. When you have to be the sort boring old average person who just lives with it and tries to go on. He wants a fag. He wants his dad. He wants his bed and he wants his home in Donny and he wants Stan and Oli and he wants not to have just had the only person he sort of felt he could trust in Holmes Chapel make him feel like his feelings where laughable. He wants Cleo. 

An hour passes. Niall and Nat join him. Twenty more minutes. Lurky joins them. Another hour. Harry and Gran come outside. Harry's carrying what looks like an over-sized cotton-ball in his arms. 

"Who's that?" asks Nat.

"This is Pat." 

Niall and Nat crowd around Harry and the dog, cooing and whining and baby-talking. Louis thinks he hears the word 'teacup' about seventy times in the space of the next ten minutes. 

"I picked her name," Gran says, taking a seat beside Louis, "I named her Pat." 

"Uhm... cool," Louis mutters, unsure of what else to say to that. 

"Yeah - because I find your girlfriend so charming. So Pat," she smiles, almost proudly, "like Nat." 

Louis is in half a mind to remind her that he isn't Niall, but then drops it. No use.

"You all right, chap?" Gran asks him after a bit. 

No. He wants to say no. He wants to look into her big, wise, weed-shot eyes and tell her that her grandson is a prick and he doesn't deserve a Teacup Pomeranian and that said Teacup Pomeranian isn't half as cute as the normal half-breed Pomeranian Louis has at home. But, he doesn't. He just smiles and says; "Yeah, I'm fine." 

" _Fine_ ," she chortles, "oh dear. That bad, is it?" 

He glances up at her from where he's still bent in on himself, clutching his face, "what?" 

"Fine," she says again, then ruffles his fringe out of place, "fine, schmine, I'll bet you a dime." 

He waits. Nothing. He sighs. The apple doesn't fall far. "You'll bet me a dime?" he echoes.

"That you aren't fine," she replies, and then she bursts into the loudest craziest scream of a laugh Louis has ever heard in his life. It soon evolves into an explosive coughing fit. 

"You all right, Gran?" Harry asks from the other end of the porch. 

"Yeah, I'm fine, it's just your mate here," she wheezes, "he's killing me, that kid." 

Louis looks at her in disbelief. 

Harry looks at Louis in disbelief. "Don't make Gran cough that hard, Louis," he says, "if you've still got a cough left then at least have the decency to not spit it into her mouth." 

"' _Spit it into her mouth_ '? What the hell, who _says_ that?"

Harry just hitches his new puppy up and raises his brows at him. "I mean it, Louis. Have some respect."

 _Respect_. Louis stares at him incredulously. Then he shakes his head. "You're insane," he hisses, jumping out of his seat and speeding down the front steps, "you're _all_ bloody insane!" 

"Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna wait in the car until we can drive home so I can get away from all you bloody mental cases!" 

He marches across the front lot and straight over to the car, then rips at the door-handle so hard his shoulder nearly falls out of socket when he realises it's locked. He groans and presses his forehead to the car, but then screams and curses when he realises that the car is about two-hundred degrees from the blazing sun. He stumbles backwards and trips over an old wooden-box that Gran's just left in the middle of the lot for no reason and lands flat on his arse.

"Don't mind him, Gran," he hears Harry say, as the others calmly approach him, "he's a bit out of it. Think he lost the plot around the millennium." 

 

*

 

By the time they finally reach back to Holmes Chapel, Louis is seething. Sizzling. Fucking fuming. He hasn't let it be known, at least he's tried his absolute best not to, but he's still been asked about forty-five times whether they need to pull over so he can pull his thong out of his arse, so he might not have been entirely successful. Frankly, he doesn't care either way. Doesn't care what they think, doesn't care what they think of _him_ , doesn't care about _any_ fucking thing because it doesn't fucking matter anyway, because all these people are fucking _insane_.

And he's _fuming_. 

He unclicks his seatbelt the second Niall turns down their street and jumps out of the car before they're even fully parked. He marches up the garden path, rips at the front door, realises it's locked and doesn't have it in him to stand around and wait for someone to come to it. He walks around the house instead, ignoring the lazy call Harry throws after him, and finds that the patio doors are conveniently also locked. Great.

He pounds down the doors until Harry comes through from the front, frowning at him. Fucking fantastic. 

"What are you going round the house for?" he drawls as he slides the doors open, the oblivious prick, "I told you I had a key." 

"Needed to stretch my legs," Louis says, marching past him. Harry doesn't follow, but Louis can feel his eyes on the back of his neck. 

He scratches at the slight burn of it, while he ignores his dad's "hey, how are you?" and continues up the stairs.

Cleo jumps out of her bed the second he opens his bedroom door, little nails clacking across the floors as she sprints to him. And for a second, he forgets that he's fuming. Then she changes her direction, jumping past him and out of the bedroom. 

"Babe, where are you-" 

She starts to bark, with all the might she has in her little body. It's Harry, carrying Pat up the stairs. She jumps up his legs, barking wildly, and Louis can't figure out whether the look of a new dog in the house has her euphorically excited or just as fuming as he is.

"Louis, could you- pick her up, she's scaring Pat," Harry mutters, trying to weave his way around Cleo. 

Louis rolls his eyes. "She's not gonna do anything, she's just curious."

"Yeah, but she's scaring Patty, just pick her up, what's the-"

"Oooooh, who is that? Who is that little _fluffybluffymunchykinnnn_?!" a girl squeals, coming down the upstairs stairwell. It's that fat friend of Gemma's, who Louis is pretty sure secretly lives here. The other day, she changed her tampon in front of him.

He shakes the horrid memory off and picks Cleo off the floors. He can't really handle all the squeaky baby-voices that surround Pat and Harry right now. He's just too...  _fuming_.

He buries himself in bed, kicks at the sheets and strangles a pillow, then plugs in his headphones and forces Cleo to lie at his chest while he rage-listens to Five Direction and slam-punches the keyboard in a wrathful game of Tetris. 

Harry frowns at him as he and and Pattywattyfluffyfuck pass through to his own room. Louis ignores him until he's gone, then launches a stuffed animal at his door. It ricochets into his dresser and knocks two day-old tea mugs to the floor. They smash so loudly that Louis hears it, even through Five Direction's auto-tuned screams.

He rips Barry's electronic high-note out of his ears and moves to pick the pieces off the floor, when his door is ripped open. "What's going on in here?" Gemma asks. She's got half a hair-extension-track hanging out of her head. 

"Nothing, I just dropped some mugs," Louis mutters, picking the broken pieces off the floor without much concern. If he gets a cut, then he gets a cut. Hopefully it'll be bad enough that he'll have to go to the ER and social services will take him away from here. "What's with the hair?" 

"Oh. Nance was trying to do some tape-ins. She can't afford to get them done properly, so she wanted to practice on me before trying on herself." 

Louis gives her a sceptical glance. "You sure she knows what she's doing?" 

"She doesn't. That's the issue. Been trying to pull this stupid hair-piece out for twenty-minutes now. Think my scalp is bleeding." 

Louis hesitates for a second. Then sighs and gives in to himself; "I can, ehm... give it a go if you'd like?" 

She frowns. "What, at ripping it out? Don't think I have the pain threshold for-" 

"No, I mean - I mean, I can try and do your tape-ins for you. Properly." 

Her mouth scrunches into a little O. He doesn't look like someone who was the slightest idea how to do hair, he knows that. It's a deliberate choice. But he does know about hair. He's watched far too many videos - before immediately scraping them from his browser-history - not to. And... well, it seems a rather therapeutic pass-time, the whole hair-thing. One that might ease his temper bit. 

"You don't know shit about hair," Gemma says. 

"I know more than Nancy." 

"How do you know you know more than me?" Nancy asks, walking up behind Gemma.

She's taken her hair out of the scrunchie she usually keeps it in, and, for the first time, Louis gets a grasp of exactly how bad things really are; thin, frizzy and frayed from shoulders to scalp. 

" _Trust_ _me_ , I do," he says, more certain than ever. No one with just a slither of knowledge in the science of hair would ever allow _that_ to happen. "Come on, give me chance, Gem. Worst that can happen is you go bald for a year or so."

"Yeah, that's not social suicide at all," Gemma snorts, but she ends up giving Louis his way in the end. 

They head up to Gemma's room to get to work. Louis still can't wrap his head around how Gemma being a couple of years older than him and Harry automatically meant she got granted a room twice the size of both of their's combined. Then again, he wouldn't trade if she begged him, seeing as there's only a paper-thin wall separating this room from dad and Anne's. If _he_  hears them from his own room sometimes, he doesn't know how the hell Gemma ever gets any sleep from in here. But, that's not his problem. 

Right now, his problem is fixing the catastrophe of glue and tape and actual _duct_ _tape_ that Nancy has made in the back of Gemma's head. It takes him a little over an hour, but by the time he's done, she hasn't lost much more than half the thickness in her hair. It's just as well, she needed a bit of a thinning out. The Styleses all have the thickest, most luscious hair he's ever gotten to put his hands on - especially Harry, if Louis didn't hate him right now - but if it isn't regularly trimmed and taken care of, it seems to turn into a huge mess of uncontrollable curls and cow-licks.

Gemma doesn't care half as much about her hair as Harry does, luckily, so she lets Louis have his way with hers. He trims the ends, layers the lengths and then inspects the hair-extensions Nancy used. 

"Nancy," he says sharply, as he attempts to run his fingers through one of the tracks, "where the hell did you buy these?" 

"Online." 

"Yeah, but  _where_ online?" 

"Uhm..." she rolls around from where she's deeply in Gemma's poor beanbag chair, "like... eBay, I think." 

Louis stifles a groan. He picks every track of synthetic horse-hair up, walks across the room and throws them all in the bin.

"What the hell!" Nancy exclaims, "I paid thirty quid for that hair!" 

"Exactly," Louis says, heading back to Gemma, who's sitting in her office-chair, consumed by her phone. He can't help but admire her utter lack of care. It's rare to find a teen girl who doesn't treat her hair with as much possessiveness as a mother would a newborn. It's nice. Fun. Especially for someone who's in a mood to practice. "Gem, I'm not gonna attach horse-hair to your head," he says, running a finger through her long smooth lengths, "it'd be like a putting a Primark-dress on Kate Moss." 

"Mm-kay..." 

"That hair was fine," Nancy mutters, glaring at him from the beanbag-chair. Her t-shirt has crept up her belly, granting him a lovely view of four big rolls. "What are you anyway, the hair-police?" 

"What are you, the hair waste-police?" 

"What are you, some sort of fancy-arse hair-student?" 

"What are you, some sort of synthetic eBay hair-vendor?" 

She falls short at coming up with a retort, at least for a full two seconds.

"Ha!" Louis yells, before she has a chance to rectify the situation, "I won." 

"Piss off, you pretentious dick. Bet you don't even know the first thing about hair anyway." 

"Mate, I'm not the one who applied wood-glue directly onto a human scalp." 

"Don't call me mate, I'm a girl." 

"A girl wouldn't treat another girls hair like that." 

"Pfft," she snorts, "as if you'd know jack about girls." 

"What, because I'm gay?" 

"No, because you don't strike me as someone who spends very much time around girls. You're gay, so you don't try to fuck them, and you're a lad's lad so you don't try to befriend them either." 

Louis ignores her, turning his attention back to Gemma's hair. "What do you say we try something a little shorter for once?" 

"Why are you talking to her like you've been her hairdresser for ages?" Nancy cuts in again.

"Why are you talking to me like I give a rat's arse about your opinion?" 

"There's a stain on your shirt," she mutters in response. 

"There are four rolls on your belly."

"There's no bulge in your jeans where your dick is supposed to be."

"There's no dip at the bottom of your face where your jawline's supposed to be."  

"There's half-off on that chinese buffet-place down town." 

Louis lifts his gaze, frowning at her. "Wha'?" 

"Yeah, it's right by a hair-dressers. I think they sell bundles of human hair there, if you want to have a look. You wanna come?"

"Ehm... sure." 

Nancy and Louis end up spending the rest of the day together. He learns that she's a year younger than Gemma, but they've been inseparable since kindergarten and that's how she justifies changing her tampon in front of Gemma's family-members. They bond over the fact that they both find it knuckle-whiteningly aggravating when people become so consumed by their phones that they can't carry on a two-minute conversation. They bond over the fact that Nancy was born a mile out of Doncaster and used to shop at the same mall as Louis. They bond over the fact that they share the same type when it comes to men; straight and utterly uninterested. 

By the time Nancy drives him back home in the evening, with a plastic-bag full of proper human hair-bundles, Nancy asks him for his number and tells him she thinks that he's sick - in the good way. "There's something ace about a gay who dresses like dumpster-fire and looks like someone who'd shag me and never call me back and still talks about hair-dressing like it's the most interesting thing in the world," she says. 

"You make me sound like someone who makes no sense." 

"Exactly," she says, "and you're not too sensible either." 

"And that's a good thing?" 

"Hell yeah. Sensible's boring." She ruffles his hair and pushes him out of the car and adds, "call me when you wanna hang again. I like how rude you are." 

"Okay..." 

He walks back in and up to his room, feeling a little bit like he's just spend the day with a potential school-shooter or outspoken feminist. Still, when he pulls a sleeping Cleo out of her own bed and crawls under the covers with her, there's a smile stuck on his lips and a remarkable lack of anger in his chest. Maybe he will call her again sometime. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here you go ;) 
> 
>  
> 
> apologies in advance for stupid mistakes

Somewhere between twelve and 3 AM, Louis' bedroom door is ripped open. If Harry's complete lack of respect for the sleeping isn't enough to wake him, Cleo jumping up on his chest and barking, definitely is. He flicks on his night-lamp and hisses; "what the hell are you doing?" 

"Coming home," Harry replies.

Louis rubs at his eyes and gives Harry a glance. He's not drunk, not even a little bit. So he's just a dick, then. "Where have you been?" 

"Laura's." 

Of course. Louis ignores the slight bit of resentment that he has no right or reason to feel, hauling himself up to sit. "Got your rocks off, then?" It's meant to be dry and sarcastic. It comes out sounding like both of those things, as well as incredibly bitter. 

"Get a life," Harry says, and then slams his bedroom door behind him before Louis has a chance to come up with a retort. 

Louis resists the urge to run after him in and curse him out. Instead, he bitches it out to Cleo, who just licks him in the face and falls asleep again.

"I hate my life," he tells his sleeping dog as he flicks his lamp off again, "if I didn't love you, I'd hate exactly everything about it."

She doesn't respond. Maybe she's consumed by her phone. Maybe she's just a dog. He wouldn't know, because suddenly, he's consumed by his own phone, lighting up the room with a new message.

"Who texts at two in the-" Harry. It's Harry, sending him a fucking text-message because he's too lazy to walk three feet into Louis' room.

 **hairystiles -** **come**

Louis glares the message. Who does he think he is? Who does he think _Louis_ is? He types out an angry response, then deletes and types out a 'no', then deletes again and decides the best message to send is no message at all. 

Three seconds later, another message ticks in:

**hairystiles - baby come on <3 **

Louis' hand fists up around his phone. Instead of attempting to type with his hand in a cramp, he yells; "fuck off!" loud enough that the people upstairs might also hear it. 

"Come in here!" Harry yells back. It sounds like he's lying down, the lazy, _lazy_  bastard. 

"Not a chance, mate!" 

No response. 

Well, except for one on his phone, two seconds later; 

**hairystiles - pls**

Louis decides it deserves a response:

**if u cant even spend an extra 3 seconds typing the word properly u dont deserve my time**

He regrets it the second he's sent it. He sounds like a strong independent woman who don't need no man. 

He doesn't get one either, because Harry decides not to text him back. 

Louis sighs. How come, no matter _what_ , no matter _when_ , no matter _where_ , Louis _always,_ without fail, ends up coming off as the desperate one? He's got to stop hanging around people who are too pretty for their own good. 

Then, Harry yells again; "P! L! E! A! R! S! E! H! O! L! E!" 

Louis groans. He types a response: 

**u are not funny**

He hears Harry laughing through the wall. He scolds himself for grinning at it. 

He receives two messages in a row: 

**hairystiles - i miss u boobies**

**hairystiles - boobear***

And, well- Louis would be lying if he said he didn't miss Harry too. He's just about to give in and throw a leg out of bed, when he receives a third one:

**hairystiles - why are u being such a dick today ?**

He flings his phone across the bed and tugs his duvet up to his neck. Fuck him. _Fuck_ him. 

Seconds pass. Minutes. More. Louis lies stiff, staring at the wall. His phone buzzes a few more times, but he uses every little piece of restraint he has in him not to pick it up again. 

Then it starts to ring. 

Louis should feel even less inclined to pick it up, considering the fact that Harry wants him to come in so much that he's going to the lengths of calling, and yet he's _still_ too fucking lazy to get out of bed. But, he's weak.

He picks up on the second ring. " _What_?!" 

"Why are you being mean to me?" he's using his baby-voice. Louis hates him. 

He wants to fling the phone across the room, pick up it up and rip it to pieces, glue it back together and shove it up Harry's arse before pulling it out through his throat. "I'm not being mean," he says instead of all that. 

"So get in here, will you." 

Louis clutches his temples. "Harry, I'm sleeping." 

"No you're not, you're ignoring my texts." Well. He isn't _wrong_. "Come oon, Lou. Just get in here." 

"Why? What is it that you need?" 

"Can't you just come in here and I'll-" 

"No," Louis cuts through, grasping for any last shred of power in this, because he knows he's already lost. Did the second he picked up the phone-call. He's going to end up going in there, he can feel it already. But he needs to not feel so easy, at least. "Tell me what you want or I'm not coming in there." 

Harry's sigh crackles through the phone-line. "I was just- I put in a movie and I realised you'd really like it." 

"Wha'?" 

"I started watching a movie and then I realised you'd love it and I wanted to watch it with you. That's all. Shoot me." 

Christ. He's going in there, then. 

He flicks off the phone, pecks Cleo's head and pads into Harry's room.

He's lying exactly where Louis expected; under his duvet with his laptop rested on his naked chest. He doesn't lift his head when Louis walks in, just pulls the duvet aside and pats the mattress beside him. "Leonardo DiCaprio's in it," he mutters.

"So, what? You thought I'd like it because there's one hot male actor in it?" 

Harry grins a little, still not moving his eyes from screen. "Just get over here, Lou-eh."

"I'm going back to bed," Louis lies, just to see his reaction.  

Harry doesn't believe him, not even for the flinch of a second. "All right, goodnight," he says faux-casually, "sweet dreams, baby-girl." 

Louis rolls his eyes and then pads over and crawls in bed with him. He hates himself. 

Harry props his pillows up for them and pushes the laptop down his thighs. "Shutter Island," he says.

"What?" 

"The movie," he taps the space-button to continue the movie, "Shutter Island. You've not seen it already, have you?" 

He has. Five times. "No." 

"Hm," Harry grunts contently.

The duvet slid down below both their knees when Harry pushed the laptop down, assuring Louis that Harry at least isn't fully nude. Not that he's particularly far from it; he's wearing a pair of white Calvin's so tight and thin that Louis can pretty much make out every line of his cock. Fuck him. It's so big, even now, even when it's just resting there, that if this movie needed subtitles Louis wouldn't be able to read them anyway. _Fuck_ him. 

Louis tries to follow the movie, but maybe he's seen it one too many times or maybe he's too distracted by Harry's abs and how they lift and tense a little with every breath he takes. Maybe he can't stop thinking about the fact that Harry came back from Laura's at 2 AM, only to ask Louis to come and cuddle. Maybe that's what he's become; after-sex entertainment. Good enough for a movie and half a chat, good enough for a cuddle, good enough for a fucking peck on the cheek if he's particularly lucky. Never good enough for the real stuff. Never fuckable, or sexy, or even just all right enough that the mere thought of it wasn't laughable to Harry. 

The saddest part of it all is that Louis somehow feels he has the right to feel unjust about it.

Maybe it's true, what the homophobes say; straight blokes can't have gay friends. They'll only end up wanting to fuck them and then become unfairly resentful when they fail. 

Maybe Harry is just too pretty for both their own goods. 

"You should take a picture," Harry drawls at some point, forcing Louis out of his head. 

"Huh?" 

Harry glances at him, the hint of smile in his eyes, and then down himself. "Last longer." 

"What do you-" 

"My dick," he says, "you're practically drooling." 

Louis' mouth drops open, because that's just so _fucking_ arrogant that it overshadows any remote slither of truth that might be to it. "Get over yourself," Louis manages, after the initial shock has worn off, but it comes out so horribly wrong that it would've been better if he'd just kept his stupid trap shut. 

Harry just shifts around a little, maybe trying to create more distance between them, and then drawls, "whatever." 

Louis strains every muscle in his body not to reply. Better off not. _Clearly_ , better off not _ever_  bloody speaking again. 

He doesn't manage. "So... had fun with Laura, then?" he asks after a moment, because he's stupid. And a masochist. And a nosy bloody _idiot_.

Harry sighs in a way that makes him instantly regret. 

"Nevermind," he mutters.

Harry doesn't reply.

They watch for another long while in silence. It feels tense. Like being too aware of your own breathing, like the volume on the movie isn't high enough, like the sound of everything around it, everything inside Louis' head, drowns it out like nothing. It's terribly awkward. Worst part is, Louis knows it's only awkward for him. Because Harry doesn't care. Doesn't even bloody know there's anything _to_ care about.

Just lies there, half-naked and beautiful, a perfect fucking tease. And if Louis - if Louis stole himself to a little touch, just a finger across his chest, a hand on his stomach, he'd just let it happen. He'd hardly even notice.

So, he does.

In a moment of lustuary insanity, Louis lays his hand out on Harry's stomach, on his perfect, half-toned abs, his soft milky skin and the faint little hairs crawling up from the waistband of his boxers.

Harry's stomach twitches at it, just a little. Not enough for it to mean anything.

Louis moves moves his pinky a little, just subtle enough that it could be excused as a twitch, a little piece of unintentional nothingness. Harry lets out a soft breath. One that, if Louis were stupid, could be interpreted as somewhat shaky. 

But Louis isn't as stupid as he sometimes wishes he were.

He isn't stupid enough to believe Harry could ever be affected by the touch of someone like him, and yet he's stupid enough to still trail his pinky across the hairs of Harry's happy trail. Just to see. Just to feel. Just to have that to take to bed with him, when he gets kicked out in a minute. 

"Hm," Harry grunts, making Louis' fingers go rigid. Then he stretches his body, his stomach lifting off the mattress a little, just enough that Louis' fingers slide down and touch to the waistband of his Calvin's. He rests back down like nothing, Louis' hand splayed out just below his belly button. Restless. Twitching. 

And- this is too stupid. Too bloody pointless. Either Harry is so unaware of Louis' touch that it wouldn't ever amount to anything but a knock to his ego, or he isn't and he just allows Louis to have his fun because he doesn't give a shit. Louis doesn't know what's worse, but he knows it's just too fucking pathetic to keep on with. Sometimes, you just have to stop. You just have to accept that you can't have everything you want, even when you want it so much that it makes you want to disregard your self-respect. 

He moves his hand up a little and lets it rest there. That's enough now. Enough rejection for tonight. Enough now. 

And then, like he's read Louis' thought, like he has some sort of inbuilt sensor that beeps whenever someone isn't trying for his cock anymore, Harry rolls his head slightly to the side, his mouth so close to Louis' ear that he can feel it, and says it; "I won't punch you." 

Louis swallows hard. He isn't quite sure what to make of it. Well, his mind isn't. His body gets it. His dick twitches in his pants, his cheeks flushing hot, a deep sucking sensation right in his lower body. His body gets it. He tries to look Harry in the eye, search for something, _anything_ , to ensure him that he isn't just hearing what he wants to hear, but Harry isn't looking at him. He isn't looking at the movie anymore either. He's looking at Louis' hand. Waiting. 

So Louis moves his hand down to his crotch.

Harry's dick feels hot and thick through the material of his boxers and he isn't hard, but he isn't _not_ hard either. He's affected, even if just a little bit, he's affected by Louis. And that's just too good to let go of. 

Louis squeezes him, feeling how his dick twitches and grows, feeling how the sound of Harry's soft moan sends shudders down his own spine. 

He digs at the fabric of Harry's boxers, presses his forehead to Harry's shoulder and forces his hand around his cock as good as he can, kneading and tugging at him. 

Then Harry moves. Louis stills, thinking he'll get pushed or laughed at now, maybe get punched despite what Harry said, but then Harry slips his hand down his own boxers and pulls his dick out. He doesn't hold it, doesn't tug at it, doesn't say or do a thing. Just lets it lie there at his pelvis, thick and hard and wet at the tip. Waiting. 

Louis wraps his hand around it. Revels in how heavy it feels in his grip, how big it looks in his hand. His hand looks as nervous as he suddenly feels as he slowly rolls Harry's foreskin back, slides his hand down to the base and gives it a testing squeeze. Harry still doesn't move or make a sound. Louis clears his throat, much too loudly, and begins to give him a few slow, dry tugs. 

He can feel Harry's head roll back in the pillows beside him. The movie feels inappropriate now, Leonardo DiCaprio yelling about something that has nothing to do with this, and Louis wants to slam the laptop shut, but he's afraid if he moves too much, Harry will change his mind. He might be stupid, but he's also a boy and he knows that if he keeps giving Harry's dick enough attention, he won't want to stop it. He won't stop it now. 

Louis jerks him a little more, hands jittery and nervous about it, and it's much too dry, getting uncomfortable quickly. He tries to thumb over Harry's dick-head, use the pre-come for slide, but it's not enough yet and he can feel Harry's soft moans come to a halt, can see his abs tensing in slight discomfort. 

And then it comes; the inevitable moment when Harry wraps his hand around Louis' wrist and pulls his hand off his dick. 

"I-"

"Cup it," Harry cuts through, lifting Louis' hand. 

"What?" Louis croaks.

"Cup your hand." 

"I-"

"Just cup your fuckin' hand, Lou-eh." 

Louis obliges, too nervous to object again, and then Harry leans over his rounded hand and spits down into it. 

"Oh," Louis says, in lieu of 'ew', "you want me to-" 

Harry just tips his head back again and raises a lazy brow at him.

Louis takes his cock in hand again. The spit helps a little. Enough. He tugs Harry off in fast, jerky movements, like he did the first guy he ever touched, too unsure to play around, too into it to go slow and risk taking Harry out of it. Harry's head rolls all the way back with his raspy hoarse moans, his back arching slightly off the bed and the lines over his hips hard and taught, twitching and tensing at Louis' tugs. His cock pumps blurbs of pre-come, slide not a problem anymore, the sticky sound of Louis' hand riding up and down mixing in with Harry's noises. 

And suddenly, having him in his hand isn't enough anymore. 

Without much pre-thought, his own painfully hard untouched dick perhaps at fault, Louis dips down and takes Harry in his mouth. Harry's hips stutter a little, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything but let out a hissing moan.

Maybe Louis has given him the idea that he's a porn-star at blow-jobs. Maybe he's made one too many sly remarks, maybe he's done it all on purpose, just to make sure they all know; he's not a pussy just because he won't fuck one. In reality, he hasn't had much practice. He can count on one hand the times he's actually gotten a guy to the finish line just with is mouth and he can't for the life of him count the times he's been subtly steered downwards by the back of his head and then slyly kissed his way up again. 

But he wants to be good now. He wants to be good at this for Harry. Show him he won't have to regret going along with this. 

He moves down as far as he can go, doesn't attempt at going further, saving himself the embarrassment of tearing up and coughing. He uses his hand where he can't reach, sucks like he likes it for himself, licks around the head as good and often as he can manage. It's harder than it's been before. It's a wider stretch on his lips, a bigger strain on his jaw, but that only makes him want to try harder.

Harry moans and groans, fucks up into Louis' mouth a couple times so he has to push a hand down on his hips to keep from gagging. But Harry likes it, he likes what Louis does for him. He absolutely loves it, the fucking hypocrite. 

He wraps a hand into the back of Louis' hair and begins to steer him, pump him up and down faster. It's a little too rough, but it seems to come from such a needy, lust-ridden place that Louis doesn't have it in him to stop it. Not even when Harry puts his own hand to the bottom of his dick and begins to jerk himself off into Louis' mouth, holding Louis tight in place by the hair. His fist punches lightly against Louis' wide-spread lips, fast and unsteady, almost shaky. 

So maybe it's Louis' own fault that he doesn't see it coming. Maybe it's his fault that he feels so utterly taken aback when Harry begins to hiss and curse, spurting hot up his tongue. Louis coughs and splutters around it, but Harry's so far gone that he doesn't think to stop holding him down, not before he's filled Louis' mouth up to the point that it's seeping down the sides of his dick. 

Finally, he gives one last weak fuck upwards and falls back on the bed, spent. His hand slides out of Louis' hair and Louis moves off of him immediately, sits up straight and turns around so Harry won't see him wipe at his eyes and mouth.

He should swallow. He should just man up and fucking swallow it down, because the longer he keeps it in his mouth, the grosser is tastes, the worse the consistency feels on his tongue. But he can't bring himself to do it. 

"Uhm," Harry drawls, "do you want me to, like, do anything for you or?" 

It sounds so forced and reluctant that Louis wishes he would've just kept quiet. 

He pushes off the bed and hurries to the bathroom, where he finally spits in the sink. He flicks on the faucet and bends over it, wiping and scratching at his tongue to get the taste out. After a moment, he raises up to check his tongue in the mirror and it looks fine, but when he closes his mouth, the taste is still there. He dips down again, letting the faucet run cold over his tongue for several seconds, maybe minutes. He doesn't know, he doesn't care, he just needs the taste to go away. 

He doesn't hear it when someone comes in and walks up behind him. He doesn't notice until Harry places a hand on his hip and mutters; "hey, sorry, I should've-" 

He cuts the faucet off and straightens up. "No, it's fine, I'm used to it." 

It sounds like Harry is about to object, maybe tell Louis exactly how shocked he looked, how he looked like a scared little kid as sprinted to the bathroom, but it doesn't come. He just gives Louis' hip a little squeeze and says; "all right." 

But Louis still feels a need to pummel on; "it's fine, really. Not like I've never had a guy come in my mouth before." 

He catches Harry's eye in the mirror and instantly regrets looking up. "Isn't it?" Harry asks calmly, like Louis' so fucking obvious that the only thing he ever gets out of lying is utter embarrassment. "'Cause it's okay if you hadn't," Harry goes on, "but then you really should've told me. I would've thought before just-" 

" _Harry_ ," Louis cuts through sharply, because it's just too patronizing, there's too much concern in Harry's eyes and it's all just too bloody much when Louis already feels like a stupid little kid. And he _isn't_ one. He isn't even younger than Harry. "Seriously, I'm not a girl, it's fine." 

Harry drops his gaze with a little nod. "Yeah, no, I know," he mutters, taking a slow step back, "I didn't mean to, like-" 

"Shut up about it. _Please_." Louis turns around to give him a hard look, mostly to prove to himself that he isn't scared of looking Harry in the eye. "I mean it, it's fine, it's - it's whatever, basically. It's just - whatever." 

Harry smiles a little. "Okay." He bumps his hip at Louis', dropping his gaze again, but his smile is still there, small and private. "Thanks anyway." 

"Yeah, it's- yeah," Louis rambles, cringing at how raspy his voice comes out, "I'm just tired now, I need to get some sleep, my classes start early tomorrow." 

Harry nods at the floor. "Okay." 

He doesn't object or try to follow as Louis goes back to his own room and Louis doesn't let himself dwell on the fact that a part of him feels a little disappointed.

This was what he wanted, wasn't it? He wanted to see if he could have Harry and have him like it, and he could so that's that. He got what he wanted. He won. Harry acted above it all, as if he didn't want it, and then he caved because he's a liar and a hypocrite and a weak-spine. He wanted it, just like Louis wanted him to admit, so Louis won this. He  _won_. 

It's funny, that. How one can come out the winner and yet still feel like the biggest bloody loser in the world.


	12. Chapter 12

The first rainy day of the year comes about two weeks after The Incident. They're hardly out of August and it's already pissing buckets, scaring Pat, who's never seen raindrops before, and enticing Cleo, who's only seen it once. They keep Louis up half the night, jumping around in the window sill and barking at each new raindrop tapping the glass.

By 8 AM in the morning, the rain hasn't stilled. The clouds are a threatening charcoal grey, taking up most all of the sky, and the dogs are still as excited as they were four hours ago, last they woke Louis. He's only gotten about three hours of uninterrupted sleep in total, so when Anne offers to drive him to school, he takes it without question.

But of course, it comes at a price. 

Just as Louis has strapped himself in the backseat, in true stepson style, Anne's _actual_  son jumps in through the other side. "Thanks, mummy," he says and ruffles raindrops off his curls, consequentially sprinkling them into the side of Louis' face, "you're the best." 

"Oh, youuuu," Anne coos, reaching a hand back to squeeze his knee. She slaps around to find Louis' too, just for good measure, so Louis closes his legs and waits for her to give up. 

It's not that he wants to be a prick to her. It's just that he can't help if he resents her, just a little, for being the cause of all his worries. If she hadn't put Harry into this world, Harry wouldn't have been able to allow Louis to give him a blowjob, and then Louis wouldn't have been able to walk around in constant fear that he'd be left in a room alone with Harry for the past two weeks. Ergo, it's sort of her fault. 

Harry pulls his phone out as Anne pulls out of the drive-way and Louis feels grateful. They haven't spoken about The Incident since the night that it happened; in fact they haven't really spoken at all. Sure, they act 'normal' - whatever that means. They act like stepbrother's should; pass each other the salt at the dinner table, agree on who gets to take a shower first in the mornings, depending on schedules, smile and lie politely whenever a friend of Anne's asks 'so, how are you two getting on? Bickering over the remote already?' 

But, they don't talk to each other. Not really. For the most part, they try to avoid eye-contact. 

At least Louis does. He's not quite sure about Harry. He's not quite sure what Harry thinks about The Incident or whether he even thinks about it at all. A couple nights ago, he came in and asked Louis if he wanted to watch a movie together. Louis declined. Two nights before that, he asked if Louis wanted a sandwich. Louis declined. Just yesterday, he asked if Louis wanted to come walk dogs with him. Louis declined, and then inconvenienced himself and Cleo by demonstratively keeping her indoors until Harry came back from walking Patty. So, maybe it's only really Louis who's making a thing out of it. Dragging it out like it matters enough to feel awkward about.

 _Maybe_ , Harry doesn't actually give a flying fuck. 

To him, it was a one-off. To Louis, it was that too, of course, he's not stupid. The significant difference, though, is that to Harry, it was a one-off both in life and mind. It happened, it ended, it's over. To Louis, it's a little more complicated than that. Once you've had someone in your mouth like that, once you've tasted the fluids from _inside_ their body, then - well, at least to Louis - it's a little hard to see them in the same light as you did before. 

But, it's stupid. The only light he's supposed to be seeing Harry in, is one of someone who's a friend. A housemate. A family-member. Ew.

 

They don't speak as they exit the car, sling their backpacks over one shoulder and begin to trot across the school parking lot. Anne conveniently dropped them as far as humanly possible from the main entrance so it's at least a thirty second walk until they can part ways and escape this terrible silence. It feels even thicker, more noticeable, because everyone around them yell and laugh and bicker with their siblings. A guy slaps his brother up the back of the head and gets his own snap-back snapped off in return. A girl pulls her younger sister along by the wrist while yelling at her for wearing heels to school. The school triplets walk in sync, arm in arm, chatting in their private triplet-language. 

And Harry and Louis, they don't say a word. They just walk there, side by side, arms tight by their sides to keep from accidentally brushing up against one another, god forbid. 

Louis steals a glance at Harry, just to see if he's even bothered. There's a bit of a drawing together happening between his brows, a strain in his jaw and a tight thin line where his mouth is supposed to be. He's definitely bothered. Louis doesn't know whether to feel better or worse, knowing he isn't the only one affected by the weight of their silence.

He ends up just speaking instead of thinking; "you all right?"

"What?" Harry rasps, shaking his head is if he were lost in thought.

Louis stifles a disappointed sigh. Harry wasn't even thinking about him. "You just looked a little bit... I don't know, forget it."

But, this once, Harry doesn't drop it and forget like he normally would. He sighs, kicks at an empty juice-box and mutters, "I'm a bit off today, I know. I'm a bit... irritated, actually." 

"Oh." Louis glances at Harry again, looking to see if it's with him. He can't tell, because Harry is staring at the ground. _Glaring_ at it, actually. "What's the matter?" 

"Just... I- I've got to go in and speak to the teacher in a minute. I've been _called_ in, I guess." 

"Oh. Why?" 

He shrugs a shoulder, but the aggravated look on his face tells Louis it's nothing to shrug about. "It's just - I'm not even entirely sure yet, but - the other night, when I was at Laura's right?" 

"Right?" Louis croaks, a little taken aback by Harry suddenly granting him full-on direct eye-contact. It's the first time since The Incident, he's pretty sure.

"Well, what happened was - which was why I got a bit irritated when you mentioned it - that we got a mail from the teacher saying we'd plagiarized half our assignment."

"What? Why would she-"

Harry pushes the front doors open and shakes his head at the floors. "I don't fuckin' well know, that's the thing. I did my part and I've never ever plagiarized shit for school - not since I was eleven, anyway. But, like - I asked Laura if she thought she might've forgotten to quote someone in her parts of the assignment, but then she just got pissy with me for insinuating it was her fault. So... I guess we got in a bit of a fight. And now we're going in to talk to this teacher and I _swear_ -" he hisses, "if she tries to blame this on me or something, I'm going to go ballistic."

They're walking straight down the hall now, but Louis can't bring himself to tell Harry that he was supposed have turned left about ten steps ago. "So, do you think they'll make you re-do the entire thing or?" he asks instead. 

Harry snorts dryly. "In that case, I won't hesitate to tell her she can re-do it herself. I did my part. This is so fucking typical. You pair up with _one_ hot girl,  _one_ time, instead of just going with someone you trust with doing their half. And then this shit happens. I'm never mixing business with pleasure again." 

Louis bites his lip over a laugh. "Right. Yeah. That's - that's probably a good idea." 

"H-hm," Harry hisses sharply, "well. I'm in there," he says, nodding at an empty class-room, "wish me luck." 

"I will." 

Harry nods at him, his lips still pressed into a tight thin line. "Thanks." 

"Well," Louis looks around himself, where the hall is beginning to thin out, "I'd wait with you, but I'm late for class so..." 

"No, it's fine. I'm just waiting for her here. Bet you she's gonna be late as well, the lazy fuckin' slacker." 

"Yeah," Louis replies, trying not to grin at the cute little crease between Harry's brows. He looks a bit like an inflated baby, sometimes. "Yeah, well. Good luck, then." 

Completely out of the blue, Harry reaches forward and pets Louis' cheek. "You look cute with your hair gelled back, by the way," he says, almost matter-of-factly. 

Louis clutches his cheek and stumbles a few steps backwards. "Ehm - thanks. See you, then. After school - then," he fumbles and then turns the wrong way down the hall. 

He ends up walking all the way down to the back-exit of the school and then all the way around the building just to get back in and over to his _actual_ class-room - all in the name of not letting Harry see the flush in his cheek. _So_ fucked. 

 

*

He doesn't meet Harry after school, because his last class gets cancelled and Harry isn't replying to his texts. Niat drive him home and offer to come in and hang out. He declines, seeing as his dad scolded him last they ate everything out of the fridge and left a weird stain on the living-room carpet and he can't really handle that today.

Up in his room, he finds Cleo and Pat play-humping each other in his bed. 

He plops down beside them with a sigh. "So easy for you two, innit. You're basically step-sisters and nobody bothers to question anything when you lick each other's bums and sleep in the same bed. It's so bloody easy to be a dog, innit?" 

"And a girl," someone says. 

Louis whirls around. Nancy. She's eating a half-wrapped cucumber like a hotdog and she's wearing what looks like a construction worker's overall. "What are you doing here? Gemma isn't home yet." 

"Exactly," she says, snapping a finger at him. She drops down on his bed, bouncing the puppy's off the mattress. They run off, scared. "She said I could hang here until she's off school." 

"How did you get in?" 

"The way I always do when you guys remember to lock your patio-doors; crawl up the tree in the backyard and jump onto Gem's balcony," she takes another big bite of the cucumber and speaks right through it, "romantic, innit?" 

"Yeah," Louis mutters, "very High School Musical." 

She laughs. "Anyway," she says, picking a piece of cucumber, that she spat out of her mouth, off the bed and popping it right back in there, "now that you're here, I was thinking you'd do my tape-ins for me." 

"You were thinking I'd just do that?" 

"Look, Larry, we both know you're going to do it, so let's just skip the whole 'I'm not that easy'-spiel and get to the part where you make me look fabulous." 

" _Louis_. And you knew that." 

She grins. "Yeah, I was just trying to establish authority - read it in me dad's self-help book once. Anywho,  should I sit in the office chair or do you just wanna do my hair here?" 

He stares at her incredulously. When she still hasn't looked up from her cucumber for five seconds straight, he drops it and tells her to go sit in the office chair. "But I'm not using the best hair I've got. I'm saving that for Gemma," he tells her, "you can have the mediocre hair." 

"That's all right. I'm used to getting the sloppy seconds," she says, so matter-of-factly that it's almost depressing.

"Yeah, I can see that," Louis sighs. 

She just laughs.

 

*

Three tubes of Keratin, one broken flat-iron and two bundles of Indian remy hair later, Nancy actually looks decent. Presentable. Sure, the hair she has left on her head that's actually her own, is probably fried to death from the four-hundred degrees needed to contain the frizz, but to the unknowing eye, she's decent. Long, blondish locks sway around her chubby shoulders, the front parts framing her circular face as nicely as Louis' scissors could manage. She's damn well decent. 

"Wow, this is amazing," she exclaims, pushing her hair out of place while she admires her new self in Louis' bathroom mirror, "this is totally wicked." 

"Thanks," Louis mutters, discretely trying to fix her hair back into place to conceal the tracks, "just don't ever shake your head or nod or try to do pole-dancing." 

"Oh shit, are you serious?" she exclaims, "I just joined a beginner's pole class. Oh, bollocks, now I won't be able to swing my sexy self around on a pole for my boyfriend." 

"Are you serious?" 

She turns around, laughing. "No, you idiot. As if I have a boyfriend." 

He ignores the self-deprecating joke, as it's more than a little depressing, and offers to pluck her eyebrows. "Might as well go all in while we're at it, eh?" 

"You know, you don't have to justify it out loud every time you want to do something girly," Nancy says, walking back into his bedroom and flattening herself out on his bed, "just do my hair and my brows and my makeup and own it. You're good at this shit. Why the internalized girlophobia?" 

He fetches his tweezers and a small-sized razor, just to be on the safe side, and sits down on the edge of the bed by her face. "What do you mean, 'girlophobia'? Is that a word?" 

"Well, internalized misogyny, then. Potato, potarto, all I'm saying is; you're good at girly shit. Man up and own it." 

"Lie still," he mutters, trying to catch a particularly rebellious hair without poking her eye out, "and I _am_ owning it. Stop over-analyzing me. What are you, a psych student?" 

"No, but I will be one day," she murmurs, "and just cause I've got my eyes closed doesn't mean I can't feel you making eyes at me." 

"I wasn't." 

"You were. And you're a dick. I'll be a great psychologist one day." 

"Right. Right. You know that you're not supposed to interrupt your clients and mock them for their internalized whateverphobia's, right?" 

She slaps at his arm. He loses the hair he'd just finally caught and has to catch his wrist to stop himself from stabbing her with the tweezers. "All right, this is too difficult, I'm gonna get on top of you," he says, throwing a leg over her thighs, " - and no, this is _not_ a sly excuse to get on you." 

"Get on me," she snort-laughs, "what are you, fifteen?"

Well. Yes. "Gay," he says, finally catching theimpossible little hair again. He yanks it out quickly, reveling in the loud wince that follows. "And only attracted to slim people." 

"Wow. Rude."

"Hey, I can't control what I like."

"Yeah, but you can control what you say."

"What, so I'm not allowed to say I don't find overweight people attractive, but you're allowed to say skinny blokes are worthless, bony pieces of shit?"

She ignores him. He leans over her face, checking his work, and is just about to call it a done job, when the door gets slammed open, followed by yelling and laughing and howling. Harry's mates toppling into the room and over to Louis' telly, hardly noticing Louis' presence at all.

Except, one of them does.  Alistair - Louis thinks - stops in front of him and gawks. "Are you plucking her eyebrows?"

"He also did my hair. I'm proper hot now," Nancy blurts, "ask your older brother if he regrets never calling me back now. He's lost out on _aaaawl-a-dizz_." 

Alistair ignores her, turning to someone in the other end of the room. "Your gay step-bro does hair now, H! We should set him up with Twinkle."

"Who's Twinkle?" Louis asks. 

"This campy bender who's tried to get on with, like,  _every_ guy in HP," Alistair laughs, "he has a YouTube channel where he puts glitter and shit on his face. It's proper funny, he calls himself Twinkle and everythin'." 

Louis crawls off of Nancy and puts the tweezers down. He glances across the room and cringes at the look of a couple of the lads studying his hair-cutting equipment and playing dress-up with his good hair-tracks. God, this is just _exactly_ what he didn't - 

"Is this, like, drag-tape?" Joseph yells, picking the extension-tape off Louis' desk, "s'your brother do drag shows and shit as well?" he asks Harry. 

Harry glances up from where he's leaned back against the wall, flicking around on his phone. His gaze rolls over the embarrassing desk full of beauty-equipment, then over toward Louis and then finally back at Joseph. "Ask him yourself," he mutters, "he's sitting right there." 

Joseph frowns a little, then puts the tape down and glances over at Louis. "Hey, mate," he says, and oh god no, he's coming over, "didn't mean to, like - talk about you like you weren't here." 

"It's cool, I didn't-" Joseph plops down on the bed, right beside Louis. "Ehm, watch out, there's a - ehm - there's a pair of-"

"Ow!" Joseph exclaims, lifting himself up to find the tweezers that quite literally nipped him in the butt. He glances at them, then puts them in Louis' lap and coughs awkwardly. 

"I wasn't - I was plucking Nancy's brows for her, I don't pluck my own-" 

"I'm leaving," Nancy announces then, slapping Louis on the top of the head as she stands up in bed. The entire mattress dips and waves as she walks across it and then jumps off. 

Louis considers going after her, seeing as he both doesn't want to be in here with the lads - now that he's 'Harry's gay drag queen step-brother' - and he also didn't really want her to leave. 

Then Joseph shoulderbumps him. "You all right, mate?"

"What? No. Yeah, I mean - yeah."

Joseph smiles. "All right. You seemed a little-" he waves a hand in front of his face. 

"Dazed. Yeah. No, I was just - didn't know you guys were coming over." 

"Oh. Oh, sorry, Harry just said we could come along, but I guess we sort of pushed it on him, I don't - sorry, were you hanging with your girlfriend?"

Louis looks up at him, his eyes narrowing a little. He isn't quite sure whether Joseph is pretending not to know that Louis is gay or if he just meant 'girlfriend' as in 'heeeey, girlfriiiiiiend'. Either way, it's kind of insulting. "She's Gemma's friend. She just wanted to get her brows plucked," he says slowly, "not that I'm any good at it. She brought all her shit in here and left it on my desk. To be honest, I reckon she fancies me."

"Oh, so- so that's her hair-stuff?"

"Well, yeah," Louis lies. There' a bad taste in his mouth, but he can't stop himself. He likes these lads. He likes the yells and the smell and the video games and the binge-drinking. He likes that he hasn't been classed as anything other than 'that lad who just happens to be gay'. He also knows that if he lets them know he's into the other shit that he _also_ sort of likes, he'll easily enter 'gay drag queen who we don't have shit in common with and who probably wants to get it on with every guy in Holmes Chapel and call himself Twinkle'-territory. It's a fine line. And Louis _cannot_ be that last guy. He just can't.

"She asked me to get on top of her to do her brows and I was just like 'mate, I'm gay, and either way I wouldn't go there'," he tells Joseph, "but you know, she's bigger than me so I couldn't really fight her." 

Joseph laughs. "Yeah, she's quite a porker, in'she? Was afraid I'd get bounced into the wall when she jumped out just before." 

Someone - Leo, Louis thinks - slaps Joseph on the shoulder. "As if you wouldn't go there if she tried it on with you."

"Piss off," Joseph laughs, "you are so gross." 

"Oh, you'd totally shag her if you could. Joseph loves a good BBW, you can just tell. More cushion for the pushin', eh?" Leo grins. 

Someone - Alistair - laughs from across the room and yells something along the lines off, "oh, he totally would. If he could get away with shaggin' her without anybody knowing he'd do it in a heartbeat." 

"True. She's a total moped. Fun to ride, but you don't want anyone to see you doing it. Eh, Joseph?"

Louis doesn't say anything. He just sits there, listening to them talk about his friend. He even laughs with them, a little. He wants to tell them to shut the fuck up. Wants to tell Leo that he's about two stone overweight himself and tell Alistair that he should wash his acne-ridden face a few times before talking shit about other people's looks. Wants to tell them all to stop talking about someone who's actually pretty damn well decent, inside and out, like that. 

But he doesn't. He doesn't say a thing. 

"Heeey," someone cuts through. It's Harry, lifting his eyes from his phone. "Don't talk about her like that. She's a person." 

Alistair rolls his eyes. "She's a person - she has feeelingzzz," he mock-laughs. 

The other's join in. 

"Hey, seriously," Harry cuts through again. He even flicks his phone off this time. "Seriously. Just cause she's fat doesn't mean she isn't nice. Or attractive, for that matter. Just - stop talking shit about her in my house. She's a friend of my family, I've known her since I was, like, four years old. Seriously. Have some respect." 

The room goes awfully silent.

After about fifteen seconds, Louis begins to fear he might spontaneously combust if someone doesn't just say something, _anything,_ soon. He almost catches himself wishing Harry would just burst out laughing and admit it was all a wind-up. 

Eventually, someone picks one of Louis' hair-clips off the desk and clips a hair-extension track onto his head and asks in a girly voice; "do I look pretty now, mummy?"

Someone yells something crude in response, and slowly, but surely, the banter re-fills the room. 

Louis glances over at Harry. He isn't looking at his phone. He's looking at Louis. Smiling. 

Louis smiles back. Yeah. He'll have to stop being a dick sometime soon. He can't live close to someone like Harry and not be close with him. Even if it does mean always wanting a little more. That's his issue. That's not Harry's fault. He's a nice guy, really. He's a really, _really_ lovely guy actually. And that's really not his fault.  


	13. Chapter 13

Someone's knee knocks into the back of his skull. He ducks his head, rubbing at the sore spot and straigthens up again. The same knee knocks right back into him. 

"Guys," he hisses, turning around. It's Harry and Alistair, play-wrestling behind him, "I'm trying to destroy Niall here. Would you _please_." 

Harry, who's on his back with an arm around Ali's body, another around his neck and a knee noticeably close within knocking-reach of Louis' head, just laughs. "Sorry, _mummy_." 

"Period coming up, Lou?" Ali chimes in.

Louis sighs, turning away again, only to find that someone's unplugged the Xbox and switched to a sports channel showing... _rugby_. Fucking _televised_ rugby. 

"Jesus. Can't get a second's peace in my own room," he groans, tossing the controller away.

But, he doesn't really mean it.

He likes having a constant hum of activity around him. Likes to be surrounded by the lads - and no, not in a perverted way - every afternoon. Likes that they actually seem to have started to _like_ him - and not just for his Xbox. He won't even try to consider how much harder things would've been if he'd allowed Harry to have the big room and consequentially would've had to make up excuses every time he wanted to hang out with the lads. No, this is nice, he thinks as he grabs a beer from someone's six-pack and relaxes back on the far edge of the bed, averting another knee to the skull. This is really quite nice. 

Feels a bit like back in Donny. 

" _Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew_!" Alistair suddenly screams, jumping into Louis' lap and then shimmying across it to throw his body out of bed. He scrambles onto his feet and out of the room, clutching his ear. 

Louis glances at Harry. He's in cramps of laughter. "What did you do?" 

Harry sticks his tongue out at him in response. 

"Ew," Louis says, "you've got earwax on your tongue," he adds, just for the sake of nothing. 

"Liar," Harry says, but wipes at his tongue anyway. 

Louis takes a sip of beer, and is just about to tell Harry off for now attempting to push his big head under Louis' arm, when a phone goes off on the nightstand. He picks Harry's up, expecting it to be his, because it usually is, but the screen is blank. He looks at his own next. And - he's getting a call. He's got all of Harry's mates in here and he's _still_ getting a call from someone who isn't his dad or Stan. This is unheard of.

He picks it up and looks at the display. It's... Nancy. "Ehm... hello?" He hasn't spoken to her since he did her tape-ins. Somehow, he feels that if he were to meet with her and allow her to look him in the eye, she'd automatically know how much of dick he was to her the second she left the room. Worst part is, he's still a dick, ignoring her texts like she's nothing. A dick and a coward and a terrible, terrible friend. 

And, well, he's missed her - in the way that you miss someone you were just beginning to think of as someone you might like to keep around. He's missed her. 

"Hi, Louis, just wanted to talk to you about something," she screams, so fast it's all basically in one word. 

Louis glances at Harry, who's watching him half-curiously, and then over at the lads, who are scattered around the room, drinking and yelling at the telly. "Ehm.. hang on a sec, I'll just find a place to-" 

He pushes off the bed and weaves his way through limbs and beer-cans into the bathroom. Luckily, it's empty - although someone's just been in here and left the toilet-seat... down. Ew. 

"Yeah, I'm back. What's up, Nance?" 

"Whatcha doiiiiing," she sing-songs, "you got a boooooy over?" 

"A few, yeah. A whole litter of'em, actually. What are you calling for?" 

"I didn't interrupt a good orgie, did I? I hate it when I do that." 

"No, it's all right, they won't notice I left." 

"That's depressing..."

"What did you call for, Nancy?" 

"Oh. Oh yeah, right - right, so I was talking to my sister about my new hair and stuff." 

Louis throws a quick glance at the door. He closed it soundly. He doesn't know why he's paranoid that someone might hear him discussing hair-doing on the phone, especially counting in the fact that someone just plugged the loudest, sickest house-shit into his speakers, but he just is. He can't help it.  "Yeah, what did you- eh - wait, where were we, I lost track of-" 

"My hair. I was talking to my sister about it. Are you having a shit right now?" 

"What? _No_. What the hell kind of question is that?" 

"You just sound distracted, so I gathered either you were having a shit or having sex. - Which, I suppose, is not that far from each other since you're gay and-" 

" _Please_ , for the love of _god_ , get back to the point. This is just... _please_."

"Oh, right, yeah, so I was talking to my sister about the great shit you did to my hair and whatnot, right? Right? _Right_?" 

"Right." 

"Right. And she told me her friend wanted to try getting tape-ins too. So I told her you could do it just as well as any professional." 

Louis' eyes widen. "Wha', wait -  _why_? Why on earth would you tell her that?" 

"Because it's pretty much true, expect it probably isn't, but you'll get there with practice. _Anywhooo_ , she said she'd pay you if you brought good hair and did an all right job." 

He meets his own eyes in the mirror, freezing. " _Wait_. Hang on. She wants to _pay_ me? Actually give me real, proper, non-Monopoly money to do her hair?" 

"Yeah. You're good, Louis. I mean, obviously, she'll pay much less than she would've paid a proper hair-dresser, but - you know. It's a start. And it's good practice for you." 

"Yeah. Yeah, that's..." That's enough to make him a little bit speechless, actually. Because it _is_ a start; a start to becoming the campy gay amateur hair-dresser of Holmes Chapel. A start to pushing himself out of a friend-group he's hardly had the chance to settle into yet. A start to becoming professional at the thing he loves. "I-" 

"Think about it," Nancy says, to his relief, "just think about it. She won't go and have it done professionally 'cause she doesn't want to spend that kind of money on it, so I guess that might... I don't know, take a bit of pressure off? Anyway, it was just an offer. I thought you'd like to consider it." 

"Yeah, I- I... don't know what to say right now." 

"That's all right. Text when you do." Then she hangs up. 

And Louis stands there, picking at his lip and trying to read his own gaze in the mirror. It's an offer. It's _definitely_ an offer. 

"Louis?" The door creaks open and Harry steps in. "Who were you talking to?"

"Why do you care?" Louis mutters, flicking his phone off.

"I don't."

"Good for you."  

Harry wavers behind Louis still. Louis doesn't say anything more, just stands there, a little thrown by the phone-call still, tapping his fingers to the cold marble-sink.

Then Harry breaks the silence; "but like, I saw it was Nancy. On your display." 

Louis sighs. "Right, so if you already knew, why bother asking?" 

"I don't know. It just seemed like you were being... private or something." 

Louis lifts his gaze to look at Harry in the mirror. He's leaned back against the door, picking at his nails. He's looking at Louis. Waiting for an answer. 

"Uhm," Louis blurts, "well, I just, ehm..."

"If you're dating her or something, I won't go all crazy with questions or anything. You know me, I don't care about that. You're fifteen, if you're unsure about girls or boys, I can understand it, really it's confusing and... and stuff." 

A crease forms between Louis' brows. "What?"

He starts to gesture wildly. "I mean - like, if you're also into girls a bit or-"

" _Oh_. Oh no. Oh, you think that was- no no. No, _god_ no," Louis laughs breathily, "no, Haz, I'm gay, I'm as gay as the day is long. No, it - it wasn't about that, it was about the - the, ehm..." 

"The hair thing?" 

Louis' gaze snaps up. Harry's just looking at him, open-eyed and completely nonjudgmental. Louis doesn't really know why he got into his head that he wouldn't be. "Yeah. The hair thing," he sighs. 

"It looked nice," Harry says, "I mean, it looked really- it was a good job that you'd done with her hair last. You'd done, uhm, like, really good, I guess? I've never seen her hair look that nice." 

Louis can't help a little chuckle. "Thank you, Harry. That's very nice of you to say." 

"That's me; nice as the day is long," Harry says, giving a boyish little head-throw and smile, before straightening up again and adding; "but really, it did look nice. That was your stuff on the desk, wasn't it? The, uhm, like, makeup-stuff?" 

"The _hair_ -stuff," Louis corrects. Significant difference. 

"Yeah. That. That was yours, wasn't it?" 

"Yeah." 

Harry nods. "Well, I'm - uhm... sorry that the lad's, like, messed with it and stuff. I would've told them not to touch it if I knew it was-" 

"No," Louis blurts, "don't do that. You don't have to tell them. You don't have to tell them anything." 

Harry frowns a little, and for a second, it looks like he's about to object, but then he just closes his mouth again and nods. "Okay. But... it's cool that you do that. The hair thing. Cause, like... like, you're good at it." 

Louis drops his gaze from the mirror, grinning down into the sink instead. " _Like, uhm, like, you're, uhm, like, good at, like, it_." 

"Heeey." Harry kicks him in the calf. "Do you do dressing up-stuff as well?" 

"Dressing up-stuff?" 

"Like... like, put on makeup and wear dresses and, like, like in RuPaul's-" 

"Know when to stop, mate." 

Harry chuckles, his gaze falling to the floor. "Yeah, I didn't really think that, that was - that was _bang_ out of order..." 

Louis watches his stupid, crinkly face in the mirror. His baby-cheeks and the cute way his mouth droops downwards when he drops his face a little. "Why did you let me do it?" he hears himself ask. 

Harry looks up, a small frown forming on his face. "Do what?"

"You know," Louis meets his gaze, quirking a brow, " _that_. For you. That night. Why did you let me do that?" 

He pinpoints the moment it snaps behind Harry's eyes. He watches Harry for ages, trying to form a response. Feels the pace of his heart fastening with every second he doesn't. "I mean..." he mutters eventually, not looking at Louis, not looking away from him either, not really looking anywhere. "It was just... I dunno. I dunno... Why did you do it?"

"No," Louis says, harsh, even as the back of his neck flushes hot, "no, I asked _you_ first. Why did you allow it to happen?" 

"What, am I your legal guardian or something? Whatever happened, it was as much your fault as it was mine. It just happened. Neither of us stopped it. We probably should have. But it happened and we can't really take it back now, can we?"

Louis chews on Harry's answer for a moment, then decides it isn't really one. "But that's not what I asked," he says, "I didn't ask for you to take it back or whether you would if you could. I just asked you; why did _you_ \- not that it's all on you, I'm not saying that - but why did _you_ , on _your_ side of it, let it happen? Why didn't _you_ stop it?" 

Harry lips part with a small clicking sound, and he looks genuinely stung by Louis' sudden directness. His gaze flickers around for a bit, then finally stills somewhere around the ceiling. "I mean..." he begins, "It's just, like... I dunno, I got turned on. It's not - come on, you're a guy, it's not that hard to believe, is it? Once you get turned on, you don't really think about the consequences in the moment. You just kind of, like, think about getting off, I guess." 

Right. Yeah. That's what he- he doesn't really know what else he wanted to hear. "No, yeah, all right," Louis mutters, "you're right, it's- but, like... yeah. Yeah, no, that - that makes sense." 

Neither speak for a moment. Louis sort of regrets even starting the conversation. Feels a bit like peeling a scab off just for the heck of it, and then realising all you've done is extend the healing-period.  

Then Harry says, slowly, the hint of a grin coming over his face, "and, I mean, I like getting head." 

"What?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "I was hard. You went down. What kind of guy pulls someone off their dick in the heat of the moment? Am I right?" 

"Right." Right. Yeah. Louis wouldn't have pulled Harry off either. Wouldn't even do it if he got on his knees right now and tried it. So. "S'a fair point. Fair point you make there." 

Harry chuckles a little. "Thanks. Anyway, I-"

He never finishes his sentence, because in that same moment, someone begins to bang down the door like there's no tomorrow. " _Piss, piss, piss_!" Niall screams from the other side, "please, whoever's in there, have some mercy on my bladder, I beg of you!" 

"Find another loo, I'm tryna suck cock in here!" Harry yells back. 

Louis face-palms. 


	14. Chapter 14

A couple of hours later, the lads begin to drizzle out one by one. By the time the last one leaves, Louis should've been sleeping two hours ago.

He crouches down by the little Pomeranian's sleeping in Cleo's bed. Pat never sleeps anywhere else anymore. She seems to understand that Harry is her owner - follows him around almost as much as he does her - but she won't sleep anywhere but with Cleo. When they lie there, fluffy and snuggled up, Louis can't really see why she should. They're in love. He's sure of it. Not in a sexual way, not in a way that prevents them from wanting a big bad boy-dog to breed them in the dog-park, not in any way other than this; cuddled-up and close. They're just in love. 

"Hey, I just thought about something incredibly sexist," Harry drawls from the bed, where he's been bouncing a tennis ball off the wall for the past twenty minutes, occasionally throwing dad-jokes and useless facts out at whoever's close enough to hear, "male dogs are just dogs. And female dogs are bitches." 

"No, they aren't," Louis mutters, scratching at Cleo's neck until she paws out at him, irritated that he's trying to interrupt her sweet sleep. 

"Exactly," Harry says, "that's my point." 

Louis sighs, hauling his tired body up to stand. "What's your point?" 

"That." 

"That?" 

" _That_." 

"Okay..." Louis turns and goes to have a piss, shave and a shower. When he comes back, Harry is lying in exactly the same spot as before, claiming not to have dropped the ball one single time since Louis left. He's clearly lying, but Louis lets him have it. Whatever makes him sleep at night.

In his own bed, that is.

"Get out of my bed, I'm going to sleep now," Louis tells Harry as he self-consciously keeps the towel up around his waist while he stumbles around and trips himself, trying to pull on a pair of pants. He manages, somehow, and then walks right over and grabs Harry's ball mid-air.

" _Nooooooo_!" Harry cries out, "I was about to beat my personal record!"

"That's brilliant, Harry. Now get out of my bed." 

Harry groans, dragging his big heavy body out of Louis' bed. Louis makes a point of pinning his gaze to the floor until Harry's gotten out of his way. When he finally lies down in bed, it's so warm from Harry's body that it's almost like having him there. Louis drags a hand up the crinkles in the sheets and spreads his legs over the space that Harry lied in.

"What are you doing?" he asks, rolling onto his side. 

Harry is hunched before the doggy-bed, the fabric of his t-shirt stretched thin between his shoulders. "Just saying goodnight to them," he murmurs, before pushing off the wall to stand up again, "Pat never wants to sleep with me anymore. Your dog stole my dog." 

"She's not supposed to sleep in the bed with you. She's an independent woman, she shouldn't be sleeping with her 'owner' every night." 

Harry snorts. "Before Pat came, you were pulling Cleo into bed with you every single night." 

"That's besides the point," Louis mutters. He was only doing that because he'd gotten so used to having Harry in bed with him that once he wasn't ill anymore it felt weird to sleep alone. "Just cause I'm a hypocrite doesn't mean I'm wrong." 

Harry sighs, deflating back against the wall across from Louis. He's still wearing trousers, miraculously; a pair black ones, maybe a size too big, kept up at the hips by a thick leather-belt. His tight white t-shirt's crept up a little, just enough that Louis can make out the lines of his pelvis. 

"How are you so tan?" Harry says suddenly, because apparently, he's been eyeing Louis back, "you haven't even been to the tanning-beds lately, have you?" 

Louis glances down his own body. He's lying on his side, one leg hooked over the duvet, which conveniently happens to be screaming white. But, he does look rather tan, regardless of color-contrasts. "Not for a while, no," he mutters. His gaze glides back over to Harry, who's already looking at him. He isn't really meeting Louis' eye, though. He's caught somewhere a little further down. "What are you looking at? You jealous, pale arse?" 

"No," Harry says, raspily, like his voice had been out of use for an hour or two, "just incredible, you've got this - like, Ali does the whole tanning thing as well, but he always ends up looking sort of... orangey." 

"And what do I end up like?" Louis asks and, because he can't really handle the complete lack of joke in Harry's expression, quickly adds; "more of a deep dark leather-couch shade?" 

"No," Harry blurts, "more like... golden. Sort of like... when mum makes caramel on the stove and she burns some of it a little bit. And she lets Gem and I eat the burnt bits. It's sort of like... that colour. Burnt caramel." 

Louis swallows. Well, then. "Right... not entirely sure whether to take that as a compliment or-" 

"No, no, it's - it's a compliment. It's definitely a compliment," Harry rambles, and his eyes are still so set on Louis' body, somewhere down around his thighs, that Louis' skin is beginning to itch from it.

Harry doesn't even seem to notice that he's staring; sort of like when he eats his cereal in the morning; lifting the spoon in a mechanical rhythm while staring directly into thin air. Except it isn't thin air now; it's Louis. And it's a little much, all of a sudden, considering the fact that it's usually something near impossible just to get Harry to lift his eyes off his phone. 

"Right," Louis croaks, "well... thank you. Then." 

Harry gives a little nod. It seems to jerk him out of his daze, because he finally moves his gaze up to meet Louis', pasting on a dazed little smile. "Yeah, course - no problem. You look nice."

"You look nice too, Harry," Louis sighs, rolling his eyes with a soft grin.

The side of Harry's mouth quirks up a little, while his eyes glide further down again. "Anyone ever tell you you've got the _fattest_ fookin'-"

" _Shut up_!" Louis screams, making Harry bark a laugh, "and yes. I've been told. Many times. Hundreds of times. So many times, in fact, that I purposely drag myself up the stairs by the railing just to keep from enlarging my arse-muscles any further." 

Harry laughs again, throwing his head back against the wall. His t-shirt slips up further, allowing Louis a full view of his abs, tensing and jumping with his laugh. It's a beautiful sight, really. Much too beautiful for bed-time. "Well," Louis says sharply, "you should piss off. I need my beauty-sleep." 

"No you don't, what are you talking about? You're already _outta diz verld_ , babez." 

Louis chucks a stuffed animal at Harry and buries his face in the pillow.  

He lies there, breathing hot into it while he waits for Harry to leave so he can pull out his laptop and have a nice wank. But by the time Harry's cackles fade, he can still feel Harry's presence; hear him breathing from the other end of the room.

"Harry," he mutters into his pillow, "why are you still here?" 

"Can I ask you something?" 

Something in his voice makes Louis open both eyes and turn on the pillow. Harry is still slouched against the wall, arms now crossed over his chest. There's a crease between his brows and Louis can't figure out whether it's there out of frustration or curiosity or something third.

"I don't know," he says slowly, once he remembers he's supposed to be answering a question - about a question, "can you?"

Harry gives a breathy laugh, then straightens up a little and asks; "do you fuck? Or do you _get_ fucked?" 

Well. _Wow_. That's - "rude." 

"Sorry," Harry chuckles, "Sorry, you don't have to answer, I just- I was just curious, I guess..."

Louis looks him over. He's scratching at his arm, looking everywhere in the room but at Louis. Louis can't see that he's asking this out of anything else than common curiosity. So he can't see any reason not to answer; "I've usually taken the receiving-position," God, he sounds like an autistic sports-commentator, " - I mean, I - I _get_ fucked. I suppose that's what- what you'd call it." 

"Hm," Harry replies, and he looks an awful lot like someone who already knew the answer before asking. Louis resists the urge to throw something more at him. "I can see that," Harry adds.

Louis slaps a hand out to find something to throw. 

"I mean-" Harry says then, "because, like - I can just imagine it." 

Louis' hand stills in the sheets. "What?" 

"Like," Harry licks his lips, and it's so shameless and out there that Louis is pretty sure he doesn't realise he's doing it, "I can just- I can see that you'd be good at it. _That_. I can imagine you would be." 

Louis clears his throat. "Yeah? How so?" 

"Just, like..." Harry uncrosses his arms, throwing them around a little, "just like - I can just imagine that you'd be really good at, like..." he meets Louis' eyes again, and it's a mistake, it's a _terrible_  fucking mistake, "taking it." 

Louis bites his lip and presses his hips down into the mattress. He's getting hard, just a little, just by hearing Harry talk about it - just by feeling Harry's eyes on his body. Maybe Harry can tell, just by looking at him, because he slides his hand down to cup his own bulge then.

"You touching yourself?" Louis asks. It comes out a little more breathy than intended.

Harry answers his question with another question; "Would you like that?" He cocks his head back against the wall so Louis can see how hard his Adam's apple bops when he swallows. "Would you like it if it got me hard? Looking at you?" 

 _Yes_. Yes, please, _anything_. Louis snaps his hips into the mattress and Harry sees it this time, sees the way Louis' lips part over a silenced moan, the way his hips ride up the sheets. "You're so fucking hot," he blurts, squeezing himself through his trousers. "Bet you like it like that," he pushes the heel of his hand to his bulge, rubbing himself harder, and throws his head back again, "bet you like it face-down, arse-up, just taking it." 

"Like it if you stopped fucking around and pulled your dick out already," Louis hisses, voice gone gruff with lust. 

Harry doesn't waste a second, yanking at his belt-buckle, chucking the belt somewhere behind him and then charging across the floors with his trousers hanging half-way down his thighs. 

He stops at the side of the bed, uncertain for a second. Louis helps him out, too impatient to tell him what to do, too far gone to do it himself, and yanks the second drawer of his nightstand out. He pushes his face back in the pillow and waits for Harry to get the message. 

"Want me to fuck you?" Harry breathes, and he's already straddling the back of Louis' thighs and rummaging through the nightstand-drawer. Louis turns his head on the pillow, panting as he watches Harry rip a condom on his teeth and then pull it down his length on experienced hands. "Okay," he says, pumping lube onto his fingers and slicking his dick up on long lazy tugs. "I'll fuck you. I'll fuck you like this." 

Next thing Louis knows, Harry's got a hand steadied heavily between his shoulder-blades and is yanking his pants down to his thighs. He slaps his fat cock against Louis' rim a few times, pushes two fingers into him, more out of opportunity than preparation, and then tries to get in properly. 

"Come _on_ ," Louis hisses, so hard it's beginning to hurt. He tries to rub himself into the mattress just to take the edge off, but then Harry blankets him with all of his weight, making it impossible to move. " _Ah_ , Harry, you've-" 

"Open _up_ ," Harry grunts, mouth pressed to the back of Louis' shoulder. He grabs at Louis' hip and lifts his pelvis off the mattress, "work with me here, you're makin' it - _ah_  - bloody impossible to get in. Open up a little." 

"I _am_ , but you-" have got a _massive_  fucking dick, "aren't trying hard enough. Push harder." 

Harry grabs one of the bars of the headboard, locking Louis down completely, and then pulls himself up into Louis with a loud groan. 

Louis teeth part around the pillow.

" _Ah_ - _ah_ ," he croaks out, hips squirming in the sheets, but there's no leverage, there's no means to get away. There's only Harry's hot heavy weight all-over him, and his big _big_ dick, forced up where it shouldn't really go. It hurts so bad Louis could cry from it if he weren't rolling his hips backwards instead, thriving on the sting of the stretch. " _God_ , you're so big," he grits out, too overwhelmed to hold back on much, "bloody _massive_ , Harry." 

Harry gives a choked laugh against the back of his shoulder. "Should've gone in more gently, huh?" 

"Fuck off," Louis hisses, because fuck that 1,2,3-finger bullshit when you can have someone as big as Harry push into you and make you feel _exactly_ how much they aren't supposed to be up there. He loves it; how his body squirms and tries to escape the sudden intrusion. How his muscle stretches so bad he feels like he might be splitting apart from the inside. How Harry's so big there's no nerve, no spot, no place he doesn't hit. " _Fuck_ , I love it," Louis hisses, "fuck, I love how big you are." 

"Mhm?" Harry grunts, thrusting so Louis' hips buck and press down into the mattress again, "you're all right?" 

Louis slaps back at him. "Yes, I'm fuckin' all right, get over yourse- _ah_ , _shit -_ fuckin' hell-" 

"Sure?" Harry asks, but begins to snap his hips before Louis has a chance to reply. 

"Yes, just-" Louis fists at the mattress, pushing back on Harry's dick, "just give it to me, come on. Just- _ungh_ ," Harry grabs his hip, driving into him so hard and deep that he drops right back onto his stomach. Harry follows, splaying his weight out on Louis' back again, not slowing his thrusts even for a second. " _Yes_ ," Louis hisses, "oh _fuck_ yes, like that, keep - _ah_ \- keep going, like that." 

It's evident that Harry was straining to be gentle at first, - maybe he's never had someone up the arse before and isn't sure how it goes, maybe he's just very much aware that he's unusually well-endowed - but he quickly loses his senses - or comes back to them, depending on how you see it -  and falls into a hard pace of quick, rabbity thrusts.

Louis lies with his face squished sideways in the pillow, feeling every hoarse little _ah-ah-yeah_ of Harry's, hot-breathed against his cheek. Maybe its the weight of Harry on him, the feeling of Harry's strong arm, snaked around his mid-section, or maybe it's the way Harry grinds into him a bit with every thrust, but Louis comes first, _fast_ , shooting into the sheets and up his own belly. 

"Did you just-" Harry pants, and before Louis has a chance to clear his throat and find half a voice to respond, goes on; "okay, I'm gonna, I'm gonna - I'm really close, hang on a second, I-" he presses his lips to the back of Louis' shoulder again, speeding up to chase his own release. Louis bites the pillow, trying to take it without making too much noise, and Harry swears and apologizes and then swears even worse and comes, filling up the condom inside Louis.

He rides it out for a second, before asking, breathlessly; "you came, right?"

"Yes, of course I came, you stupid idiot," Louis snort-laughs, slapping back at him with whatever little strength he has left. 

"That's - that's- s'good," Harry slurs, and he's still pretty out of breath, his chest rising and falling against Louis' back, his heart hammering into him. "God," he breathes, once his hips have finally come to a complete halt, "didn't even take my trousers off." 

Louis can't help it if his dick twitches a little at that; Harry wanted him so bad he couldn't wait until he'd gotten fully undressed. He twists his neck to look at back him, and maybe it comes off as an invitation, because next thing he knows he's got Harry's lips on his own, his tongue pushing into his mouth. He goes with it, languidly, letting Harry snog him sloppily, hands down around his sacrum, rubbing gently as if he's afraid he might've hurt Louis. 

He probably has, a little bit, but Louis can't find it in himself to care. Not right after getting fucked so well he can't hardly feel his toes. 

At some point, Harry breaks the kiss and pulls out of Louis. He ties off the condom, tosses it in the bin, goes and picks it out of there when Louis tells him off for it, and then walks to the bathroom and flushes it instead. He comes back with his trousers done up again and if he didn't have a huge Louis-shaped sweat-stain on his front, Louis would believe that this was all just a figment of his wishful imagination.

Then Harry tosses a flannel at him. "Clean-up time, Cum Stomach." 

"Right. Thanks..." Louis mutters, pulling his pants up to cover his arse, ever so indiscreetly, before wiping off his stomach, "that was... something."

"Hope our parents didn't hear," Harry mutters, like it's nothing, but it makes Louis go from zero to sick to his stomach in less than three seconds. He just had sex with his step-brother. His _step-brother_. "Budge up." 

"What?" Louis croaks. His actual _step-brother_. 

"What, you're not gonna let me sleep in here?" 

"No, what are you- get _out_!" Louis hisses, kicking at Harry. He just. Had sex. With his. STEP-BROTHER. " _Get out, get out, get out_! This never happened!" 

"All right, then," Harry laughs, sauntering off with his gawky long arms swinging around him like a fucking gorilla, "g'night, babes. Hope you're not too sore." 

"Piss _off_!" 


	15. Chapter 15

He wakes the following morning to the sound of his phone buzzing against the nightstand. He ignores the text and rolls over, sucking up whatever tiny amount of time he has left before his alarm clock rings. 

Half a minute.

That's the amount of time he had before the brain-jarring triangle- and xylophone-mix that is his alarm tune, goes off. He groans, rolls over and turns it off, then closes his eyes to mentally prepare himself for the fact that getting up and getting out of bed means getting back to reality.

A reality in which he just had his step-brother up his arse last night.

He can already hear Harry through the wall, swearing because someone's unplugged his electrical toothbrush from the charger last night. It was himself, Louis remembers. He would yell it out loud, just to take Harry down a peg or two, but right now, speaking to Harry sits pretty fucking high on the list of things Louis never ever _ever_ wants to do. 

So he checks his phone instead. 

**niall whoran - check student mail!!! first periods cancelled!!**

He isn't even wrong. The big fat double-up history-lessons Louis was so looking forward to - _not_ \- have been scratched right off his online schedule. Thank fuck for teacher's having snotty three-year-old's to blame their bonking off on.

Louis plops back down in bed with a content sigh, flicking the phone off and flinging it across the mattress. He'll wake by himself in time for third period. He definitely will. He probably will. 

He won't have to worry, apparently; he can't fall asleep again.

Instead of closing his eyes and nodding right off like any sane person would at seven in the morning, Louis finds himself lying wide awake, staring at the wall that separates him from the bathroom. Separates him from Harry. In a minute, maybe two, maybe even three, but definitely less than five, Harry will be coming through to Louis' room. That's the one big fat flaw about having the big bedroom; it's also the only gate-way to Harry's room. There seems to have been a separate door once, from Harry's bedroom and out into the main hall, but it's been barricaded by a huge book-stand, seemingly cemented into to the wall. 

So, as it is, Harry will have to come through Louis' room, even if he doesn't want to. Even if Louis really _really_ doesn't want him to. 

And, he does. 

Not five minutes after Louis has lied down to sleep, eyes wide and brain vividly awake still, Harry comes through from the bathroom. His school uniform is freshly ironed, his hair is in a perfectly sculpted mess around his pink-cheeked baby-face and he's carrying two school-books at his chest. He looks like the epitome of someone who most certainly did _not_ have his cock up his step-brother's arse last night. 

Louis closes his eyes the second Harry turns toward him instead of heading straight to the door. He manages in time, he thinks, because he can hear Harry walking right past him without hesitation. Where the hell he's headed, Louis isn't sure, but he isn't about to blow his own cover and ask.

Then he he hears a high-pitched little ' _woof!_ '. 

"Helloooo, darlings," Harry coos, and it sounds like he's crouched before the doggy-bed, "goodmorning, goodmorning - no, don't go that way, little lady, you don't want to wake him, I think he's meeting late. Come on, then, why don't we go downstairs and get you two some brekkie?" 

He makes a groaning noise, like he's lifting himself and both the dogs off the floor.

He begins to walk toward the door, thank fuck, but then he stops, suddenly, right before Louis' bed, and exclaims; "No, Cleo, don't - _argh._ " A little weight falls onto Louis' legs. It disappears a second later, and from what Louis can hear, Harry just lifted Cleo off of him. "Don't wake him, he needs the rest. _Trust_ me, he does." 

This _bitch_. Louis has to bite his lip numb not to snap at him. 

"Trust me," Harry repeats, "he really, _really_ needs his rest after last night, I'm actually not sure he'll ever be able to walk right aga-" 

"Piss off!" Louis blurts. 

Harry burst into loud provocative laughter. "Knew it! Knew you weren't sleeping, you fuckin' fraud."

"Piss _off_." Louis kicks out at him. "You're pathetic." 

"I'm going downstairs now," Harry replies calmly, "need me to bring a Paracetamol up for you? Take the edge off the waggle or?" 

" _Fuck_ _off_ , _Harry_!" 

He laughs as he fucks off, two dogs in tow. Louis hates him. Hates Harry and himself and the fact that he tries to jump out of bed and then nearly crashes to the floor when he realises exactly how much he _does_  need a Paracetamol.

 

*

 

Somehow, Louis ends up going to Nancy's after school. He'd like to think it isn't entirely out of not wanting to be around Harry right now. He'd like to let himself believe that. 

"So. How's your fit brother?" Nancy's sister, Katie, asks. 

" _Step_ -brother," Louis corrects. Significant difference. Very, _very_ significant.  

"Yeah, how is he? He goes to my class, actually," Katie says, smiling widely. She's chubby, short and has one of those faces that look exactly like a million soap opera-actresses you can't for the life of you remember the names of. She's rather pretty, actually. In a baby-faced sort of way. 

She's not for Harry, though.

"Well, if he goes to your class why're you asking me how he is?" Louis mutters.

He's got his teeth locked around a hair-extension track, attempting to both comb and flat-iron it at the same time. Katie's friend, who wanted her tape-in's done, is coming over in a minute and Louis would be lying if he said he weren't just the slightest bit anxious. He's never had anyone pay for anything he's done before. Well, unless you count in that one time he mowed his next-door neighbor's lawn and got a five'er for it, until she realised he'd driven over several rocks and smashed her lawn-mower and Louis' dad ended up having to buy her a new one. 

Anyway, he's got to have this hair looking perfect, is the point.

He can't waste his time listening to some Harry-drooler. There are too many of those, anyway, and for every Katie there's a Laura - a girl who's ten times prettier, that is - so Louis can't really see the point in humoring her hopeless romanticism. 

"I don't reckon he's _that_ fit," Nancy says, saving Louis from accidentally blurting to Katie that she's just not got any chance with him, "I mean, he's fit, of course. But not _that_ fit." 

"Good point," Louis mutters, "well put." 

"Thanks," she grins, "oh, Katie, don't give me that look. -  She's absolutely besotted with him, isn't it cute, Lou?" 

"Haven't you got some boy bander to cast your infatuation on instead?" Louis asks. 

Katie gasps, like he's just offended her entire being. "For your information, I'm not some pathetic mental fan-girl," she hisses, "I go to class with Harry. I'm not _infatuated_ with him, I actually _know_ him. I go to class with him." 

"Yeah, you've said that. Like, five times." 

She scoffs. "You're annoying." 

Louis glances at her. She looks twelve from the side. "Have you ever even spoken to Harry?" 

"Of course I have!" she exclaims, "we're good friends."

"You're good friends? Then how come he's never _ever_ mentioned you?" 

"Because, I don't know - maybe he's not good enough friends with you to tell you who he's good friends with." 

"Pfft. Don't think he even knows your name, love. Sorry." 

"Hey," Nancy cuts in. She's frowning at Louis in a way that makes him feel a bit like kid who's disappointed his mother. "Don't be so mean, she's just got crush on him, what's the harm?" 

Right. Right. "No, yeah, sorry. Sorry, Katie, I didn't mean to say that, that was-" an oddly petty thing to do, "uncalled for." 

Katie nods, her chubby little arms crossed tightly over her Five Direction-t-shirt. "It's all right. And I _do_ talk to him, you know. We even had a snog at a party last weekend, so..." 

So. 

 

*

 

People neck on with people. Harry necks on with a lot of people. He shagged Laura, presumably. He snogged Katie, last weekend. He shagged Louis, just last night. He'll shag someone else, come the next offer. He isn't a player, so far as Louis can see. He isn't a fuckboy, whatever that even means. He isn't even really a horn-dog. 

What he is, is an opportunist. 

If someone offers, he takes it. If someone kisses, he kisses back. If someone tells him that they're gay and makes it so pathetically painfully clear that he can have them _any_ time, _any_ where, _any_ way, he'll be gay. He'll be gay, just for a night, just out of opportunity. It's understandable. He's a 'why not?' rather than 'why?' kind of guy. It's modern, it's cool and it's never meant to hurt anyone; it's never meant to make anyone feel anything at all, apart from a bit of fun and pleasure in the heat of the moment.

It's perfect. It's pretty fucking fabulous. 

It's the best thing ever, Louis thinks as he flings himself onto his bed the second he gets home that evening. Fuck here, fuck there, fuck everywhere, but don't ever make the fucking mistake of actually _giving_ a fuck. It's fucking perfect. That'll be his new fucking motto. 

A text-message beeps itself into his jittery mind. He picks the phone up with a demonstratively irritated sigh, even though there's no one around to hear him, and scans the texts: 

**nancy - Katie told me to tell you Izzy is over the moon**

**nancy - about her new tape-ins. she told me to tell u that she has a few other friends who want it too**

**nancy - should i tell them u can do it?**

**nancy - what's your price if they bring their own hair?**

**nancy - ive got about 4 girls in total, hoping to hear from u unless u've put ur price up.**

**nancy - txt when u can love**

Wow. Four girls. Four girls, hoping to pay _him_ to do _their_ hair. This has got to be a joke. 

He did a good job on Katie's friend earlier today. Considering how irritated he felt after being reminded that Harry humps _anything_ with a pulse, even fucking family, he did a pretty decent job. Granted, the girl had long luscious locks already, and only needed a few tracks to thicken up the ends, but he _did_ do well. He has to have, now that he's got four other girls gagging to pay _him_ money to do _their_ hair. This is - no, it's _got_ to be a joke. 

"It isn't," Nancy tells him when he calls her up to be sure, "I mean it, babe, you cost less than half of what the proper places round town does and you do the exact same job. I can't see how there could be anything to joke about." 

Wow. "Right. So - so - so can you tell them that-"

"That you've put the price up, just a little, just to enhance the profit?" 

Ehm. "I mean-" 

"Cause I've already told them that and they're still all interested. I'll give them all your number?" 

Well. "I mean, if-" 

"Good, 'cause I already have and you'll probably hear from some of them in the next couple days. Anyway, are you going to do the hair at your place or mine?" 

"Ehm-" 

"Cause I already told them you were doing it at Harry Styles' house. You know, crank up the appeal, eh?" 

"Right." 

"I'll take five percent of your earnings, by the way," Nancy adds, "since I'm basically your manager."

"Ehm-" 

She hangs up. 

Wow. Business is taking off. It feels like the sort of news that need to be exclaimed to a friend while squealing and happy-jumping. It feels like the sort of news that Louis would never _ever_ tell any of his friends.

It feels like he's still getting out of bed to find someone to tell it to. Cleo isn't in his own or Harry's room, and neither is Patty - _or_ Harry, for that matter.

"What are you doing in my room!" Harry yells from the shower. Right.

Louis steps into the steamy room, eyes on the floor, and mutters; "wasn't in your room." 

"Mate, I heard you stub your toe on my nightstand and curse the day I was born." 

Louis bites back a laugh. "Well, it was a pretty shitty day." 

"Especially for my mum, I'm sure," Harry agrees, "you know, what with having to push a ten pound baby out of her vagina." 

"You weighed nearly _a stone_ when you were born?!" 

"Anyway, what were you snooping round my room for?" He snaps his fingers at Louis, "oi, look at me when I'm talking to you." 

Louis' head snaps up, only to frown at Harry for speaking to him like a teacher would a pre-school kid. He gets stopped in his tracks somewhere around Harry's dick and moving his gaze upward doesn't really help anything. Hot shower-rays cascade down the lines of Harry's naked body, catching on the ridges of his six pack, running down his milky white thighs. He throws a hand through his black-wet hair, smoothing it back from his face, twice. He knows exactly what he's doing, the terrible tease.

Louis forces his gaze down to the corner of the shower-cubicle. "Wasn't snooping," he mutters, trying to remember why the hell he's even in here, "I - oh yeah, I was actually going to tell you something exciting." 

"Yeah?" 

"I've, ehm - I've actually gotten a bunch of new jobs-offers. Off the books." 

Harry's face folds into something that might actually be genuine enthusiasm. "Really? What, how? What kind of jobs?" 

"Ehm..." 

"Hair-jobs?" Harry exclaims, and he looks so delighted that it's almost enough to make the embarrassment go away, "that's amazing, Lou! See what I told you, you're good at that shit." 

"Thanks."

"Wow. That's incredible, Lou. You're gonna be, like, a celebrity hair-stylist one day, I can already see it."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." 

"You all right?" 

Louis lifts his gaze, frowning. "Wha'?" 

"You just look a bit... I don't know," Harry imitates Louis' posture, crossing his arms over his chest and making a grumpy face, "tense." 

"I'm not. I'm not.. I'm- it's... I'm just excited about the- the hair thing."

Harry looks him over, sceptical. Then his gaze rolls down his own body, slowly. When he finally lifts it to look Louis in the eye again, there's a shit-eating grin on his face. "Havin' a hard time concentrating, are we?"

"Piss off, Harry."

He waggles his hips, his fat cock swinging with it. "Sure?"

"Yes I'm sure, Harry, stop being a dick."

"Sure you don't wanna join me in here?" Harry grins, waggling his brows.

He's a stupid tease. He's a _tease_ and he doesn't really mean _anything_ by _anything_ and it's _not_ a real offer and he's a _fucking_ arse-hole. He's so _fucking_ hot.

"Actually, now that you mention it, could you finish up, I've got to take a shower myself," Louis says, turning to look at himself in the mirror and ignore Harry's antics. He's better than this. "I've got class early, I don't wanna rush to shower in the morning." 

It's quiet behind him. He wills himself not to turn and try to figure out whatever's compelled Harry not to reply this time. 

When Harry finally speaks, it's much softer, much lower, than anticipated; "look, I'm really knackered, but if you get in here, I'll give you a hand-job or something." 

Louis whirls around, his throat going suddenly dry. " _Wha_ '?"

"Lou- _eh_ ," Harry sighs, smiling a little, "just get in here." 

"Why would I-" 

"I'll tug you off if you want that. You don't have to give me anything back, just get in here, I want a cuddle. Come _on_ , we both know you want to, I don't know why you're playing hard to get."

And that's- that's just - bloody offensive. "I'm not ' _playing hard to get_ '," Louis hisses, "I'm not getting in the fuckin' shower with you, you absolute pervert. You can't just tell me to do something and then expect me to-" 

"I'll give you a blow-job." 

Louis blinks. "Beg your pardon?" 

"I'll give you a blow-job," Harry repeats, eyes wide and persistent, "if you get in here and give me a cuddle now, then - then I'll try and give you a blow-job." 

Right. Well, then. 

What's the point of having a spine anyway?  


	16. Chapter 16

Of course, it doesn't end up being the last time. 

After the mediocre blow-job that Harry performs on Louis - shower-sex is _not_ like in the movies - they move to the bathroom floor and fuck like dogs until they bust all over the carpet. They fuck the following morning too, bonking off first period, and then again a couple nights later, when Harry comes home angry, having just been told for the second time that Laura's plagiarized the part she was supposed to fix _because_  of bloody plagiarizing. It's the best, most violent, sex they've had.

The first couple weeks consist of a whole lot of ' _no, we're not doing this again_ 's, ' _all right, just put it in a little bit, but that'll be it_ ' and so,  _so_ many ' _oh fuck it, then_ 's. They're all about Harry catching Louis at the right time, when his guard is down and his balls are blue. They're all about Louis catching Harry when he's tired and alone and manipulating the situation to make it seem like it was Harry's idea to begin with. Mostly, they're about lying to themselves; it won't happen again. This'll be the last time. This is _not_ going to be a 'thing'.

Inevitably, though, it does become a 'thing'.

As September turns to October and November stomps its feet in the door with a vicious hail-attack, ' _should_ we?' becomes ' _when_ should we?' and ' _stop giving me that look, Harry, I told you, it's not going to happen again_ ' becomes ' _stop giving me that look, Harry, and start giving me your cock already_ '. 

It becomes normal somehow, the thing they're not supposed to be doing. A consistent part of their weekly routine; get back, sack and crack waxed - _check_. Listen to Nancy's latest boy-trouble - _check_. Get it in with Harry between classes - _check_. 

In fact, it becomes so _not_ out of the ordinary to them that, sometimes, they forget that it is. 

On a half-wet, half-soggy grey day in late November, Louis finds Harry and the lads hanging under the rusty old half-roofs in the schoolyard. Joseph and Leo are puffing cigarettes and it looks like they've got some to spare. 

"Bum one?" Louis drops his arse down on the fungus-ridden bench-table they're all sprawled around.

Joseph gives him a fag and lights it without having to be asked. "You got free period now?" 

"Yeah," Louis puffs smoke out through his nose and glances around the area under the half-roof. Harry's leaned back against the brick-wall, grabbing at his own crotch and making obscene mouth-gestures at Ali and Will. He's as pale as he's been since Louis' known him, cheeks a pinkish red like his nose and dark chocolate curls sharp in contrast to his porcelain face. 

Someone nudges Louis in the arm. "Mate." It's Joseph. "D'you hear me?"

"Wha'?"

"Asked if you wanted to come down to the shops with me and Leo. You were free till next period, right?" 

"Right. Yeah." Louis takes another drag of his fag and leans back against the cold hard edge of the bench-table. "Right. What shops? What are we getting?" 

Leo's face lights up into a huge smile. "My new trainers, they've finally got them in in my size and I've got to..." he goes on for a while, more eager about his new shoes than Louis' ever seen him be about anything. His chubby cheeks bop up and down, saliva accumulating in the crooks of his little mouth and there's an almost manic gleam in his eyes. Louis watches him in quiet amusement, nodding and 'mhm'-ing at the right times. 

Until someone slides down beside him on the bench.

"Hey," Harry says. 

"Hey," Louis replies.

They stare out at the school-yard instead of at each other. Before they started shagging, they had no issue looking at each other - for the most part, anyway. But now - now that there's something to hide, something to find if you look a bit too far into things - they hardly ever look at one another. At least not around people. It could be tiring; not getting to be natural around each other. It could be a secret little thrill; having something that no one else knows of. 

It's a little of both, but mostly, it just is what it is; staring out at a cold, rainy schoolyard. 

"You got free period now?" Louis asks. 

"Yeah," Harry says, "Niall wants me to help him with some notes for English 'cause he forgot about this book we were supposed to have read for today." 

"Classic Horan." 

"Classic everyone." 

"Innit..." 

Harry's huge scoffed-up trainers bop up and down in the dirty asphalt, so far apart that he must be taking up half of the bench with how wide he's spreading. If Nancy were here, she'd scold him for 'man-spreading'. But Nancy isn't here and Louis can't really find it in himself to have an issue with men spreading their legs.

Right as he's about to make a joke about it, mostly just to kill the silence, Harry beats him to it; "you off?" 

Louis coughs. "Wha'?" 

"You off? Now? Free period?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, I was going with Joseph and Leo down the shops." 

Louis gives in and looks over at Harry. He's still staring into thin air, but he's chewing at his lip a little, his eyebrows slightly drawn together. "Do you," he rasps, then clears his throat, "want to, like..." his fingers tap at the small space of bench between their thighs, "pop home instead? And, uhm..." he lowers his voice even further, "have a cuddle or something?"  

Right. A cuddle. "Yeah, I-" Louis looks around himself, then turns to Harry and nods, like sealing a confidential business-agreement, "yeah, that sounds all right." 

Harry nods back at him, then pushes off the bench and begins to walk. After a few steps, he stops to look back at Louis, hair going damp with dust-rain. He raises both brows at him and nods for him to follow. 

Louis pushes off the bench so jerkily that he almost trips himself and falls face-down into a puddle. 

"Oi! Tommo, where you off to!" Joseph calls out as Louis marches after Harry, hood of his sweatshirt pulled up and hands hard-fisted in the pockets. 

"Forgot some shit at home for next period!" he shouts back, fastening his pace. 

Joseph yells something more after that, but by then Louis' far enough away that he can pretend he didn't hear it. 

He and Harry jump on their bikes and hurry home, pedaling like panting maniacs, rain hitting their faces like whips. Once they reach their garden path, they toss the bikes in the grass and run inside.

"Helloooo!" Harry yells, checking the downstairs loo and then continuing into the kitchen, calling out for his mum, Louis' dad, Gemma, the dogs, _anyone_. 

Louis toes off his muddy trainers and pulls down his hood, fixing his half-wet fringe in the entrance hall-mirror. 

"No one's home," Harry mutters, heading straight past him and up the stairs. 

Louis follows without a word. 

They fuck in Harry's room, Louis' legs over Harry's arms, one arm around his slow-grinding hips and the other around his shoulders, hand in his damp hair, cradling Harry's head to the crook of his neck. It's a little bit rushed; sweatshirts still on, Harry's jeans slouched somewhere around his calves and his sock-clad feet sticking half-way out of the bed. It's a little bit intimate; Harry's icy soft cheek pressed to Louis' jaw, his thick winter-duvet pulled up and around them, only the sounds of the rain tapping the window and their quiet moans filling the room. 

It's so slow and deep that Louis' about to bust within the first three minutes. That's until he gets distracted by something outside of bed.

A door. 

" _Wait_ ," he hisses, shifting abruptly under Harry's weight. He could swear he heard a door - _footsteps_. Footsteps in the house. "Wait, hang on, Haz, I think someone's-" 

Harry finally lifts his head from Louis' neck, eyes fuzzy and darkened, lips wet and puffy. "Wha'?" he slurs. 

"Shh, I think I heard-" _Footsteps_.

Harry's eyes blow wide. " _Fuck_ ," he mouths out.

Then another door opens; the one right next door. The one to Louis' bedroom.

Harry's eyes reach teacup-size. "Fuck, _shit_ , what do I-" 

" _Shh_!"  

"But-" 

"Harry?! Harry, are you home?" comes a call from Louis' bedroom. Niall. Fucking Niall.

Harry's eyes screw shut and then he slaps himself in the face. "Fuck..." 

"What?" Louis hisses. 

 _Knock knock knock_! "Harry, are you there?" 

Harry bites his lip, staring down at Louis for instructions. 

"Answer him!" Louis mouths out. "Answer him before he-" 

 _Knock knock_! "Harry, mate, you said you'd-" 

"Don't come in!" Harry screams. "Don't come in, hang on a minute, I'll come out!" 

"All right..." Niall mutters from the other side. 

Harry pulls out of Louis, rips on his trousers without bothering to take off the condom, throws the duvet over Louis and then rushes to the door. 

" _What_?!"

Louis lies as still as he can, trying not to breathe, but also trying not to _not_ breathe so much that he'll suddenly end up gasping loudly for air. 

"You said to meet you at the cafeteria. Why didn't you show?" 

"How did you even get in?" Harry asks, irritation clear in his voice. He sounds like he's got his dick crammed between his thighs. 

"Door wasn't locked." Fucking hell. They could yell through the entire house to make sure they were alone, but they couldn't lock the bloody front door after themselves. They pretty much deserved to be caught. "Anyway, mate, I seriously need your notes for next period or I'm a dead man." 

Harry sighs. "Right, uhm... all right, I'll - I'll, can I mail them to you?" 

"What? Can't you just take your laptop out and I'll have a look at them now." 

"No, but - I - you can take my laptop. Take it with you, then." 

"What?" 

"You can just, uhm - you can just take it. Just-" sounds of a zipper and manic hand-movements, "just here, take it, take my entire laptop, I don't care, throw it in the bushes, just take it, take it and leave, _please_." 

Louis bites his lip not to burst out laughing. 

"Ehm..." Niall mutters, "whose feet are those?" 

 _Fuck_. Louis yanks both his knees up to his chest. _Shit_. 

"No one's," Harry exclaims. Louis slaps himself in the face. Great. "What are you on about, what feet, I didn't see any feet, what the fuck are you talking about, 'feet'?" No improvisational skills. None, what so ever. 

"Mate, I _just_ saw two girl's feet in your bed. You literally _saw_ me see them," Niall says, "who's under there, come on?" 

"No one," Harry insists, the utterly unimaginative freak, "there's no one in here, Niall, you're acting mental. Just leave already. I'll mail you the notes, just please, _please_ leave now." 

Niall laughs. "All right, then. Say hi to your girlfriend from me." 

"Shut _up_ , Niall-" 

" _Bloody 'ell_!" Niall suddenly exclaims, followed by a loud roar of laughter, "you've got the biggest fuckin' chub on I've ever-" 

The door slams shut. Then gets locked.

Niall's laugh continues down the hall until it fades and Louis feels all right peeking his head out from under the duvet. Harry is sitting on the floor now, clicking manically at the touch-pad of his laptop while biting at the nails of his other hand. 

Louis lets out a long breath and allows the duvet to slip down to his stomach. He shifts back a little, propping himself up on some of Harry's pillows and asks Harry what he's doing, even though he already knows the answer.

"Mailing him the notes so he doesn't barge back in here," Harry mutters. There's a taught line between his brows.

"You look pissed."

"Yeah well..." Harry slams his keyboard, once, so hard that Louis almost feels bad for it, "kind of rude, innit. Walking into people's houses without warning."

"And cock-blocking," Louis adds, "cock-blocking's really fuckin' rude as well."

Harry gives a breathy little laugh, his expression softening up. "Yeah," he mutters, giving his bulge a squeeze.

He closes the laptop, gets off the floor, comes back toward Louis, and then, instead of sliding back on him, picks his phone off the nightstand. Fucker.  

Louis shimmies over to the edge of the bed and slaps at his thigh.

"Two seconds," Harry mutters, waving a hand out for him to wait. Louis bites his leg. Harry pushes his clammy hand into Louis' face. "Hang _on_ a sec..."

Louis groans and rolls over to face the wall. "What's so bloody important all the time... fuckin' ridiculous..."

"I'm checkin' whether Niall's got the fuckin' e-mail so he won't come runnin' back in here while you've got your fuckin' legs in the air."

Right. Louis moves to turn around again, but before he gets to it, the bed bounces violently and Harry attacks him from behind. He play-growls, gnaws at Louis' neck and then gives his arse a smack so hard Louis screeches and kicks out at the wall. 

" _Bitch_ ," Louis hisses under his breath, but rolls around anyway, and lets Harry get between his legs and hitch them up. "How long d'we have - _ungh_ \- left?" he breathes as Harry pushes into him again. 

"Ten minutes," Harry groans, reaching both hands down to lift Louis' arse and get in deeper, " - till we have to be back there." 

" _What_?" Louis exclaims, "why the fuck would you get us going again? _Ah_ \- takes like ten minutes just to bike there." 

Harry doesn't reply, just reaches a hand down and begins to tug Louis off, fast. He isn't moving much, just staying deep, rolling in circles, and it's so intense on Louis' spot that it's almost too much. Louis comes within the minute, stuttering and groaning and yanking at Harry's hair. 

"Mhm," Harry moans, lying down on him fully, "you're so fuckin' sexy when you come." 

Louis doesn't really have it in him to find a response, so instead he just finds Harry's lips with his own. Harry fastens his thrusts, quick little snaps of his hips, and Louis holds him steady at his shoulder by the back of his sweat-slick hair.

"Come on. Come on now, come on," Louis encourages, and after an additional couple minutes; "come on, seriously, _ah_ , come on, finish. Finish, Harry, _ah_ , seriously, you've gotta-" 

"I'm _trying_ ," Harry hisses, hot into his neck, and hitches Louis' arse up further, pushing into him so deep and hard at once that Louis shouts at it. 

"Pissing _shit_ , Harry, would you just - _ah_  - finish already." 

Harry stops with a frustrated sigh and lifts his head enough to look down at Louis with his messy brows raised. "Let me take off the condom." 

Ha. "No way." 

"Please. Just- just for a little bit, I promise I wont-" 

"Forget it, Harry, it ain't gonna happen. Finish up in the condom or tug yourself off." 

Harry groans in irritation, but pushes his face back in the mattress beside Louis' face, fists a hand around the front of Louis' sweatshirt and resumes to fucking him. It's hard, fast and relentless in way that just wont ever be comfortable after you've already come. When it's been a minute and Harry still hasn't finished, Louis decides to take matters into his own hands. 

Literally. 

He slides a hand down, in between Harry's cheeks and presses a finger to his rim.

Harry's entire body goes rigid at the contact. " _Louis_." 

"It'll make you come in, like, less than second if you like it," Louis says, pushing a little harder. "Just open up for me, so I can-" 

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before Harry has snatched his wrist and pinned it to the mattress. In less than four seconds, Harry has pulled out of him, rolled onto his back, taken off the condom and begun to strip himself off. 

"What the hell?" Louis shifts onto his side to frown at him. "What just happened?"

Harry stutters around his words, watching Louis as his right arm works overtime. "Suck it. You can - suck it if you want, but- _ah_ \- you're not stickin' _nothing_  up my arse." 

And. Wow. Louis waits a second for Harry's expression to soften, for it to break into a laugh or even just a smirk. It doesn't happen. He just keeps his firm stare, brows arched and furrowed, jaw twitching and lips pressed into a thin line. If he weren't about to come, Louis would say he looked livid. 

Once he does come, he still looks livid. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Louis yells as Harry pushes off the bed and stumbles off to the bathroom, trousers handicapping him halfway down his calves. "What the fuck just happened?" 

Harry marches back out a minute later, trousers up and jizz wiped off his stomach. He chucks a flannel at Louis, then begins to buckle his belt and reaches for his phone. 

Louis snatches it off the nightstand before he gets to it. " _No_. Nothing's so important that you can't hold off  _one_  bloody minute to answer me," he hisses, "what the hell just happened?" 

Harry kicks at the carpet. "Nothing." 

"That's bullshit, Harry. You just - you went mental the second I tried to-" 

"Stuff a finger up my arse?" Harry's head snaps up, eyes fiery suddenly, "yeah, 'course I did. You're not stickin' _nothing_  up my arse."

Louis stares at him incredulously. "Why're you being a twat?" 

Harry scoffs. "What, so I'm not allowed to say I don't want stuff up my arse? Just cause you like it, don't mean I'll-" 

"No, no. No, I - I know that, but..." Louis throws a hand through his hair. Yeah. Yeah... "yeah, well... sorry, then. Shouldn't have - shouldn't have tried that." 

"Right," Harry agrees. "Well," he says, stuffing his laptop back in his schoolbag and slinging it over one shoulder, "you comin'? We're already late." 

But suddenly it doesn't feel all that important not to miss that one last gym class he has today. Before, he felt a bit giddy with it; cramming a quick fuck in between classes like some sort of secretive sex-superman. Now, he just feels sort of deflated. "D'you know what, I think I'll just bonk off," he mutters, pulling the duvet up to his neck, "gym class." 

"Right. Too sore?" 

He looks so genuinely well-meaning that Louis just flat-out answers him honestly for once; "yeah, actually. Took you a while there." 

Harry nods, then grabs his phone, which Louis left on the mattress after his demonstrative childish snatching of it. "Anyway, I've gotta go. Be off around three. You gonna stay in here or?" 

"Oh." He hadn't even thought about the fact that he's hogging Harry's bed. "Oh, no, I don't have to-" 

"It's all right," he smiles, "I'll bring some scones back after school." 

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks." 

Harry nods, smiles, turns, walks, then stops and turns again. "You're all right, right? We're all right? Right?" 

"Yeah. Why wouldn't we be?" 

Harry shakes his head at himself. "Yeah. Fine. All right. Well. See you." 

"See you." 

Harry blows him a kiss, then marches off, balls freshly emptied and legs good to go. And for the first time, Louis can't help but feel a little bit irritated with the fact that he's lying here, sore as hell from getting ploughed like a corn-field, and Harry won't even try  _one_ fucking finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say I'm so happy for all of you that read (and REALLY grateful for you that comment, it means more than you know!). 
> 
> This is my second fic and, compared to my first one, this is doing really well really fast - so thank you. Thank you for kudos, comments and hits, it motivates me to keep writing in this fandom even though i'm really late to the party! <3 
> 
> hope you enjoyed


	17. Chapter 17

It isn't even about wanting to fuck Harry. It isn't even about feeling lesser than or weaker or feminized by always bottoming. It's never been about that - at least not until today. At the risk of sounding like a complete female, Louis thinks he knows what it is. It's not what Harry said; it's the way he said it. If he'd just said it like Louis would if a girl tried to make advances at him; "I'm sorry, but that's just not for me", then Louis wouldn't have blinked an eye. Might've told him to tug himself off and get on with it, yes - but he wouldn't have felt this irritated afterwards. But the fact that Harry reacted so... _angrily_ , it - it feels a bit fucking belittling.

It feels a little bit like having had someone you respect - and who you thought respected you back - happily do something to you over and over and over again, only to find out that the mere thought of anyone doing it to _them_  would be like a massive punch to their ego. God forbid. God forbid, Harry be a dickless little pillow-biter.  

To preserve his sense of self-respect - whatever's left of it anyway - Louis gets out of Harry's bed soon as he's left the house. He showers, has a bite to eat - exactly enough that he wont cave and cling to Harry like a sloth to a jungle-branch the second he comes home with scones - and then plays video-games for two hours. Around two thirty, Joseph sends him a picture of Leo with his new trainers pressed to his chubby cheeks. Louis invites them both over. 

They warn him they might bring another one of the lads, then arrive five minutes later with Niall, Alistair and Will in tow. 

By the time Harry arrives home - which is approximately forty-three and a half minutes later than he said he would - Louis is slouched across Niall with a beer in hand, watching Ali kick Leo's arse on the flat-screen. Harry joins without much notice, but after a few minutes, Niall pushes Louis off of himself to slide over to Harry's side, link an arm around his shoulder and ask; "so, how'd it go with your mystery girl?" 

Louis' jaw locks up. He watches them out of the side of his eye. Watches how incredibly calm Harry manages to stay. All he does is smirk, shrug a shoulder and drawl; "went all right, thanks." 

"Who is she? Was it Laura?" Niall digs.

He doesn't get anything out of it though, and for once, Louis loves Harry's impeccable ability to not ever _actually_ answer a question with much more than a dimple-pop and a 'well, I meaan, I dunnoo...'. 

Eventually, Niall gets bored of it and heads off to 'raid the kitchen'. Harry looks to Louis, who now feels a little exposed, having no one to block the space between them.

"Hey," Harry says, giving an apologetic little smile, "I forgot to buy you scones." 

"That's all right." And great. Now, all he can think about are scones. 

"Had to walk this kid home from class because I accidentally tripped him and made him twist his ankle. Typical, right?" 

"Right..." If you're as clumsy as Harry. Which, nobody is. 

The space between them falls silent again. Once an appropriate four seconds have passed, Louis turns his head back to the telly.

Of course, that's exactly the moment that Harry decides to say something; "you all right, mate?" 

Jesus. "I'm _fine_."

"All right. You sure?" 

"Certain." 

"Hm."

Two fingers tap at Louis' ankle. Louis twitches at it, but still reserves the right to pretend he doesn't notice. Harry retracts his fingers again and pulls his phone out. Brilliant.

"Social dilemma, everyone!" Alistair yells from the corner of the room, saving Louis from the chaos of his own mind, "what do you do when a mingin' girl keeps asking you 'where's my hug' after class?" 

"So. Mate," Joseph says from the office-chair that he's slouched back in, feet up on Louis' dresser, "here's the thing," he puts his palms together and points them to Alistair as if he's making an incredibly important point, "you're ugly as fuck." 

He gets a beer-can launched at him. 

"Ey, don't shoot the messenger, bru," Joseph laughs, jumping out of the chair to pick the beer-can up and throw it back at Ali. He doesn't sit back down, but grabs his shoes instead and plops down on the space between Harry and Louis to tie them on. "I'm heading home," he tells them, right before he Ali chucks the beer-can directly back into his face.

He jumps onto all fours on the floor to grab the can and throw it back and, for some reason, - maybe just instincts - Louis' hand flies forward and smacks him in the bum. 

"Sorry," Louis blurts, lifting both hands in defense when Joseph looks back at him, "out of my control, it was right there, I would've been a mug if I hadn't smacked that." 

Joseph laughs. "S'all right, mate, I get you," he grins, standing up and grabbing Louis' face by both hands, "I can't resist you either." 

"It's just this - this palpable sexual tension, innit," Louis chimes in. 

Joseph nods, then kisses three of his fingers and presses them to Louis' lips. "If loving you is wrong I don't wanna be right, boo," he whispers, just before Louis punches him in the balls and he doubles over in pain and laughter. 

Once he leaves, Louis is left alone in bed with Harry again. Harry is frowning at Louis. It isn't a frown of confusion. It isn't even one out of irritation. It's the sort of frown that means one thing and one thing only; 'you disgust me'. 

Louis burps loudly. Might as well, then.

 

*

 

Of course, Harry doesn't let the day end there. No. The lads leave around seven and he has about three hours from that time and until Louis goes to bed. He still chooses to play computer for all of them instead of coming and talking to Louis. Therefore, Louis assumes that Harry reckons there's nothing to talk about. Otherwise, he would've come and talked before Louis went to bed. Of course he would. Any sane person with respect for other people's sleep would. 

Ha.

At 1 AM Harry storms into his room. 

"What the fuck," Louis groans, sitting up and catching Cleo and Pat, who've been scared out of their skin and jumped up into bed with him. 

Harry marches over to Louis' dresser and begins to rip his drawers out and look through them. "Help me find it," he hisses. 

"Find what?" Louis rubs at his tired eyes. "Harry, seriously, I was sleeping... Get out, please." 

"I will as soon as I've found it," Harry mutters, crouching down to stick a hand underneath Louis' dresser and feel around, "where the hell is it..." 

"Is what? What, what is it that you're looking for?" 

Harry turns then. "Did you take it?" 

"What? Harry, you're giving me Gollum-vibes, please just tell me what you're looking for and I'll try to help." 

Harry grabs at the dresser and hauls himself up to stand. "I've been looking all over for it," he says, "can't find it." 

" _What_? What is 'it'?!" Louis hisses.

"Like, uhm..." he drops his gaze, "my hug. Where it at." 

Louis blinks. "Wha'?" 

"My hug," Harry repeats, lifting his gaze a little. He somehow manages to look up through his lashes, even though he's towering over Louis, and look like a shy little school-boy. But, he _isn't_ bloody shy. He's so fucking terrible. "Where it at," he repeats, "did you take it? Can you give it back to me?" 

Louis drops his face into his hand.

"Please," Harry goes on, and it sounds like he's coming closer, "give it back to me, Lou. I miss it." 

Once Harry reaches the side of the bed, Louis lifts his face out of his hand and looks up at him. He's in a pair of blue boxer-shorts and nothing else, his skin looking soft and white, his body wide and warm. Perhaps Louis did steal his hug. Harry looks like someone from whom Louis would steal hugs. 

"Get in, then," he sighs, scooting over so Harry can slip under the duvet with him. 

Harry smells like himself, and he's as soft as he looks, so Louis lets him close, strong arms wrapping around his waist and a leg sliding in between Louis'.

They lie on their sides for a while, close enough for the tips of their noses to touch, the light breathing through their noses mixing.

Harry moves first, lifting a hand up to cup the side of Louis' face and trace the thin skin underneath his eye. "I'm not opposed to it," he whispers, and presses a soft kiss to the side of Louis' mouth. Louis gets greedy, just at the tiny bit of it, and nips forward for more. Harry kisses him again, lips damp and parted around Louis' bottom one, giving a soft little click as he pulls back again, "I'll try it if you want me to. It just... took me aback, was all." 

"Hm," Louis hums, too caught up in the taste of Harry to focus on his words, "yeah, all right..." 

Harry plants a little kiss below Louis' lips and then bites at his chin. Louis slaps a hand onto the side of his face, pulling him back and then pulling him in again. Fitting their mouths together. 

Harry licks into his mouth, just a little, then pulls back and says; "but, I'm sorry if it came out like I - like, that, I don't even know..." 

This time, Louis somehow manages to hear him. "What? What, you don't know what?" he whispers. 

"Like... just, I - I didn't mean to get pissy with you earlier. When you tried to, you know, stick a finger up my arse." 

Louis can't help a little laugh. "Right," he says, dropping his chin to his chest, "right, yeah. That's - that's all right." 

"No, but, like... it - it shouldn't have come out like that," Harry continues. He presses a kiss to Louis' forehead and then adds; "I just wasn't prepared and I didn't want to, like, be a bitch about it." 

"A bitch?" 

"Like..." Harry pulls back a little, and if Louis didn't know Harry wasn't capable of that emotion, he'd say Harry looked a little embarrassed, "just... you know, you're like - you hardly ever even need me to use my fingers first or anything. Like, all you need is something to bend over and you're good to go." 

"Right..." 

Harry laughs. "No, it wasn't meant like - like... it was meant as a compliment."

"You do have a way with words, don't ya..."

"Sorry," Harry chuckles, "sorry, my words always come out shit when you're around." Louis ignores the way his stomach loops at the words. "I just- basically, I didn't want to end up looking like a massive fuckin' cry-baby if I couldn't even take one or two fingers in the heat of the moment. Because, like - you're so tough about it. You just take it..." he grins, a little, "like a man." 

Louis tucks a curl behind his ear for him. "And you'd start crying one knuckle in or?" 

"That's the fear, innit," Harry chuckles breathily, "anyway, it would've been pretty fuckin' embarrassing, is all. If you'd been lying there with a cock up your arse and then I start wimperin' a few fingers in."

Right. "Yeah... so you're not - you don't think it's... I don't know." 

"What?" A cute little crease forms between Harry's brows. "Gross?" 

Louis snorts. "No, I doubt I'd ever have to worry about that, mate, I saw you eat lasagna out of the bin the other day." Harry laughs. Louis tries to find his words. "Ehm... but," he starts warily, "you don't think that - like, 'cause you're a guy you don't want to emasculate yourself by... taking the 'girls' role during sex?" 

"Do you want me to?" Harry asks. 

"Wha'?" 

"I mean, I'll try it if we, like, have time one day. Like, maybe on a weekend or something. I'll try it if you want me to. But... I just don't want it to be rushed, I guess. I think that sort of thing goes wrong if you rush it the first time." 

Right. So, once again, Louis' been making shit up in his head. Harry isn't - never has been - worried about being 'emasculated' by bottoming. Because you can't emasculate someone who feels secure in their masculinity.

It's Louis, who's been projecting. It's Louis, once again, who's been stupid. "We don't have to try it," he tells Harry, "I don't feel a need to."

"Oh thank _god_ ," Harry exclaims, like he'd been holding his breath for ages. 

Louis bursts out laughing. 


	18. Chapter 18

It's December fifth and the Holmes Chapel centre mall already looks as though all of Santa's helpers had a massive rave and puked up everywhere. Decorative snowflakes hang from every ceiling lamp, glittery plastic-trees are stuffed in every free nook and cranny and the fountain that usually takes up the center-space has been replaced by a gigantic exhibition of sorts.

There's a stage, covered in fake snow and plastic wrappers from candy-canes, where Santa sits, discretely pulling his phone out from under his beard whenever there's a lull between children. There's a small log house, which looks an awful lot like the one the mall used three weeks ago, when they were doing a Hansel and Gretel-play for the kids, only now there's a bunch of Christmas-lights wrapped around it. A few of Santa's helpers - three of which Louis knows from school - slouch around in front of the log house, luring kids with bags of Christmas-candy, only to demand five quid from their mother's once it's too late.

Oh, Christmas. The most magical time a year. 

"All right, that's six..." Nancy says, breathless after running to catch up to Louis, "halfway there. Who're you missing?" 

She's got this terrible, terrible tradition in her part-Scottish family; every year, around a week into December, all of the Scots come down for a week-long visit; Little Christmas, they call it. It's great because of the food, she told Louis, but terrible because she has to stress about finding presents for twelve Scotsmen she only sees once a year.

"Ehm..." Louis looks down at the tiny Boots-bag he's carrying. So far, he's gotten his dad a buzzer, because that's what he always gets him, and then a big tub of that Anti-Aging cream he once saw standing in Anne's bathroom. "I've still got to find something for Gemma," he mutters, "was about to just grab some mascara or summat, but I felt like it'd be a little impersonal." 

"Yeah, and Gemma doesn't give a shit about makeup." 

"Exactly... but, like.... the issue is that..." 

"Gemma doesn't give a shit about anything." 

Louis lets out a breathy chuckle. "Sort of. Yeah." 

"I know. I always save her present for last. It's the worst part about Christmas for me, every year, without fail. She can't for the life of her come up with something to wish for, but then she goes and gives you the best present of your entire life. And you end up giving her, like... a pencil. It's really fuckin' mean of her." 

"Exactly," Louis laughs, "I asked her just yesterday if there was anything, just _anything_ , she might need, and you know what she said to me?" 

"Nothing?" 

"No. She said she needed dust-rollers. Fucking _dust-rollers_. What kind of mug am I not gonna look like if we're all sitting round the tree and she gets me the best present of my life and I basically get her fucking Sellotape on a stick?" 

Nancy shakes her head at the ground. "She's evil. Pure evil." 

"Anyway, I'll probably just end up buying her clothes. She wears clothes, so..." 

"Yeah, she does do that." 

Louis sighs. "And don't even get me started on Harry - I've got _no_ bloody idea what to get him. _He_ doesn't even wear clothes." 

"True. Very true..." 

 

*****

 

Louis ends up buying Gemma a dress - with the receipt in the box, obviously -  and then spends forty minutes in GameStop, looking for something that Harry might like. The issue is that either it's something Louis would like and he'd only be buying it to use himself, or it's something that Harry actually _would_ like too, but Louis knows Anne's already bought it for him. That's the one big major issue, actually; Harry is spoiled. Not in personality, don't ask Louis how he isn't, but rather just in general. He's his mother's little baby and he gets everything he wants, even when he hardly mentions it aloud, so when they get to a time like Christmas, there's pretty much nothing left to give him. 

Louis ends up buying him a five-pack of bright-colored Calvin's. You can't ever get enough of those, he supposes. And, well, Harry looks hot in them. 

He and Nancy end their five hour long shopping trip at Burger King. 

Just as they're sitting down in a sticky red corner-booth to devour their Whoppers, a skinny blonde comes running up to them. She's got waist-long fairy-like hair, huge blue eyes and a tiny little mouth. Louis thinks he's seen her around school. "Nancyyyyyy!" she exclaims, "so good to see you!" 

"Hiya," Nancy says, wiping her mouth off and standing half-way up to hug the girl, "been so long, hasn't it?"

" _So_ long," the girl agrees, "how have you been? How's your sister?" 

"Good. Good. Great. Yeah. How about you?" Nancy asks, "how's the- eh- how are you?" 

She smiles widely. "So good. _So_ good... wow... it's so lovely to see you again, Nance." She turns to Louis, smiling. "I'm Angie. You're Louis, right?" 

"Ehm... yeah. How d'you-" 

"I've seen you round school," she says, still smiling like she's got her cheeks stitched back, "you're Harry Styles' brother, right?"

"Step-brother." 

"Yeah... yeah... wow... well, how is he?" 

Louis shifts in his seat. "Ehm. He's good. He's good, he's - yeah..." 

"That's great," she gives a little giggle, "we used to be lab-partners, you know. Well, until I got bumped up to a different level. Harry was so terrible at it, it was hysterical. He'd always create some sort of explosion and then joke it away." She laughs to herself. "Anyway, how is he?" she asks again.

"Good," Louis says again. 

"Right..." she bites her lip for a second, shifts weight, then looks up again with a little smile, "I wouldn't usually do this, but, uhm - could you give Harry this?" she reaches into her purse, scribbles something down on the back of a receipt and hands it to Louis, "it's my number. I think he must've lost it last, but we were talking about maybe going for- anyway, that's besides the point. Could you, ehm - could you give it to him?" She bites her lip again. "If it's not too much to ask." 

Louis realises he's been holding the receipt mid-air since she gave it to him. He pulls his arm in and stuffs it in his pocket. "Yeah. Sure. Course."

She smiles again, nods, and says, "well. See you around." She begins to walk, then throws another quick smile over her shoulder, directed at Nancy, "and you too, of course, Nancy! So nice to run into you!" 

Once she's gone, Louis pulls the receipt out of his pocket again. Angie's added a heart after her digits. He crumbles it up and stuffs it back in the pocket. 

"Who was that?" he asks Nancy.

Nancy leans in a little, glances in the direction Angie went off in, then looks back at Louis and whispers; "no _fuckin_ ' idea."

 

*

 

Louis gets home around 6 PM. He eats with the family. He declines nicely when Harry asks him if he wants to come downstairs and watch Midsomer Murders with him and Anne. He sits in his room, staring at a telly he isn't really watching for exactly three hours, until he caves. He's got to do the right thing. He can't be keeping secrets from the only person he isn't lying to at the moment, especially not out of something as petty as a stupid bit of unwanted jealousy.

He's got to leave it up to Harry.

"I've gotten something for you," Louis tells Harry, when he comes up to his room that evening. 

"Yaaaay!" Harry exclaims, "don't tell me what it is before Christmas, though, I'd like it to be a surprise." 

Oh. "Oh, no, I meant, I've - someone gave something to me. To give to you." 

Harry stops in the middle of the room to give Louis a once-over. "Is this, like, a sexual innuendo that I'm not getting or-"

"No. No no, it's-" Louis grabs the jeans he threw to the floor as soon as he got in, and fishes out the receipt. He hands it to Harry. 

Harry looks at it, frowning a little. "One King Chicken Fillet and a medium-sized coke?" 

"No," Louis groans, "the other side." 

Harry flips the paper and reads. "Who's number is this?" 

"Ehm... Angie. Angie from school. She said you two used to be lab-partners. That she'd, ehm... given you her number before, but she thought you might've lost it or summat." 

"Oh. Right." Harry smiles. He stuffs the receipt in his pocket. "Thanks, mate," he says, then heads on into his own room. 

And... that's that, then. Right.


	19. Chapter 19

The second Saturday in December, Louis wakes in tremors. He hasn't yet bothered to ask his dad about getting him a proper winter duvet and he's also ninety percent certain that his bedroom is poorly isolated. It's colder than any other room in the house, he's sure of it. 

He keeps telling himself that, all the way out of bed and into Harry's room.

Harry is lying on his side, duvet pulled up to under his neck, feet sticking out at the end of the bed. He grunts, once, and wipes at his nose before smacking his lips and nuzzling into his pillow again. Yes, Louis thinks. Here is warmer. 

He pads across the floors and slips into Harry's bed.

There's a hair that keeps falling into Harry's lashes. Louis tucks it away for him. In return, Harry grunts and rolls onto his other side, facing away from Louis. When Louis shifts a little closer, though, Harry reaches back and takes one of his arms, linking it around his own tummy. He grabs Louis' leg as well, linking it over both of his own, and then hums happily, resting back into him. 

Louis lies with him like that for a long while, slipping in and out of sleep. He isn't sure how long it's been, when Harry eventually grunts and sniffles, then gives Louis' wrist a squeeze and rasps, "hey, you." 

"Hey." 

He rolls around to face Louis, his hand slipping around Louis' waist to pull him in. Louis smooths Harry's messy fringe back and draws his fingers through the lengths his hair and then rests his hand around the nape of his neck. He pulls Harry forward, a little, and kisses him. It's meant as a peck, a wordless little 'good morning', but Harry falls into it so easily, like he was already tipping forward before Louis kissed him, so they end up snogging for a while.

Harry pulls on him, morning-weak and needy at the same time, plays aimlessly with the waistband on the back of Louis' boxers and feels his arse up, just a little. 

"Mhm," he hums between kisses, "you taste like those candy-canes I bought for myself yesterday." 

Louis takes in the sweet little curl on the side of Harry's mouth, then licks at it and whispers back, "what candy-canes? Why would I steal your candy-canes and keep them in my nightstand and eat them whenever you aren't looking?" 

Harry laughs into the kiss. 

Eventually, he pulls back a little, drawling, "time s'it?" 

Louis groans, rolling around to slap a hand out for Harry's phone on the nightstand. He smiles to himself, rolling his eyes, when Harry immediately moves with him, pressing his morning-wood into crevice of his arse. " _Harry-_ " 

"We got time?" Harry mutters, nipping at the skin between Louis' shoulder-blades. 

Louis finds the phone and flicks it on. The first thing he sees isn't the time, although it is there, bright and clear in huge digits. The only thing he sees, really, is a message on the display; 

**angie - haha ok <3 sweet dreams then**

It was received last night, right around the time Harry slipped into the shower with Louis and Louis got on his knees and gave him head for fucking ages.

He clears his suddenly dry throat and flicks the phone off. "Half past nine," he mutters, pushing a hand to Harry's pelvis to get him to back up a little.

"We've got time, then," Harry drawls, pushing closer again, "s'been a while since we've properly..." he snakes an arm around Louis' waist, pulling him back on his hard cock, and snaps his hips forward, "you know..." 

"Properly what?" Louis asks, because he feels like being annoying suddenly. He lets Harry grind and touch all he wants, but he lies stiff in it, staring blankly at the wall across from him. He isn't entirely sure what he's being a bitch about. Or why he can't seem to find it in himself to stop. "Since we've properly, what?" he repeats, just as tonelessly as before. 

Harry slips both his big hands down the sides of Louis' boxers, trying to shimmy them down his arse. "Lift your hip a little," he says, and Louis hates his body for shuddering at Harry's morning-hoarse voice against the nape of his neck, "m' tryna pull'em down, but - lift your hip a little, Lou." 

Louis lifts his hip and lets Harry pull his boxers down. Harry leaves them mid-thigh and moves closer again, pressing his pre-come slick cock in between Louis' arse cheeks. "Do you," he says, between bitey little kisses up Louis' shoulder, "want to," he snaps his hips forward, suggestively, "grab the stuff." 

"What stuff?" Louis asks, staring at the wall across from him still.

He knows what stuff. Any idiot would. But, he doesn't want to grab the bloody stuff. He doesn't want to make _anything_ easy for Harry right now. There are enough things which are easy for Harry. Pretty much everything is, actually. School. Friends. Money. Shags. He can have it all and he can get away with having it all by being so fucking charming and faux-self-deprecating when he needs to be. He's the only person Louis knows that can fuck you, your friend and your sister and still end up looking like a 'genuinely nice guy deep down'. 

"The stuff, Lou," Harry goes on, and when Louis doesn't reply, Harry reaches around him, pulls out the nightstand-drawer and grabs the stuff himself. He drops the lube-bottle in front of Louis and nips the condom up between two fingers, then stills for a second. "You do want to, right?"

"I don't know, I suppose that's up to you," Louis replies. What Harry wants, Harry gets. Isn't that how it goes?

Harry drops his arms down in front of Louis with a frustrated sigh, the condom slipping out of his fingers. "Okay, so we're not doing it, then." 

"Guess not. Then."

Harry sighs again, dropping his forehead to the nape of Louis' neck. 

After a moment, he puts 'the stuff' back in the nightstand, pulls Louis' boxers up again and rests his arm around him, flattening his palm out at his sternum. He scoots up the mattress a little, high enough that he has to dip down to press a kiss to Louis' shoulder. "We can also just cuddle," he says softly, "we can always just cuddle." 

"Right." 

Harry sighs, once again. "Is something the matter, Louis?" 

"No." 

"Okay, then." A moment passes. Then Harry begins to speak. Then he stops himself. Then he tries again; "but, like... if you tell me nothing's the matter then that's all I've got to go from. And if you later on decide that you're mad at me for not fixing things or apologizing, then that's just... kind of shit. Because you tell me it's fine. Or you just flat-out don't tell me anything. So how the hell am I supposed to prevent a bad situation? D'you know what I mean?" 

Well. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

"Right. And - and, like... sometimes I feel like you think a lot of stuff that, like- you never say it. You just keep it in. But, like, how am I then supposed to-" 

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, Harry," Louis cuts through, "I act like a girl, I tell you things are fine and then they aren't fine, bla bla, it's not your fault. Chill. It's not your fault. I'm not cross. Leave it. Just leave it." 

"I - okay. Okay, then." 

The worst part of it all is that Louis doesn't even really have the right to be annoyed with Harry. Because, well, Harry  _is -_ deep down, Harry  _is_  just a genuinely nice guy. But that's just so _fucking_  annoying, sometimes. 


	20. Chapter 20

Louis doesn't hear about Angie for a while after that. He isn't sure whether Harry somehow managed to find out that Louis saw the text that morning, - or just that Louis is in less of a mood to shag whenever Harry makes it too clear that he's also shagging other people - but he seems to have decided to focus all of his attention on Louis for the time being.

Once they're off school for Christmas, Harry hardly lets him out of sight. Doesn't let him sleep alone and _never_  lets him sleep without getting off first. 

On the twenty-first, Harry, Louis, Gemma and Anne bake gingerbread men together and decorate the tree. On the twenty-second, Nancy and Louis spend a day hauled up in Louis' room, wrapping presents together. They also exchange presents for one another that day; she gets a flat-iron to fix the mess she's already made of her tape-ins and Louis gets a professional hair-dressing kit - and a cutting-cape with a voluptuous bikini-model's body printed on it. On the twenty-third, Troy drives Louis to Doncaster. Oli and Stan both have presents for him, to his great surprise - they never used to give one another presents before - and Louis spends the day catching up with everyone, before Troy picks him up and they drive back home to Holmes Chapel. 

On the twenty-fourth, at 1.23 AM, it begins to snow. 

By morning, there's a thick white duvet of it, covering the back-yard. Louis and Harry take the dogs outside and then spend twenty minutes trying to find them under the snow. They take the shaking little animals inside and warm them, then put on snow-pants and gloves and head outside again. Niall and Nat come over, wearing cringy matching snowsuits, and Nancy manages to drag Gemma outside to play. 

Harry insists on building the perfect snowman, so he bops about in a corner for forty-five minutes while everyone else snowball-fights. By the time he's finished, his snowman looks like something out of a magazine. A magazine-article on how _not_ to build a snowman, that is. 

"What is that on his face?!" Nat screams, horrified. 

"Oh," Harry mutters, "well, we were all out of carrots so I used a zucchini for his nose instead."

"He'll never get a snow-girlfriend with that nose," Gemma says. 

"Correction; he'll never get a superficial snow-girlfriend, who only loves him for his looks, with that nose," Nancy cuts in, "instead, he'll get a proper snow- _woman_ , with integrity, who loves him for who he is." 

"Ew." 

"Teaaaa and biscuits!!!" Anne yells from the patio-doors. "Tea and biscuits, everyoneee!!" 

"Fuck, I love your mum," Nat says, setting into a sprint. 

"She's so fuckin' hot," Niall agrees, running after her. 

The others start to follow, but when Louis throws a glance over his shoulder, Harry is still standing by his snowman, patting his face in with his massive gloves.

Louis grins, walking back to him. "Fixing up his facial structure?"

"M-hm," Harry mutters, focused on work, "can't both have a huge green nose _and_ a completely un-chiseled face-shape." 

Louis chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for him. 

"Actually," Harry says, jumping over the the side of the snowman, "if you'd just stand there for a bit longer, i can re-create your face-shape on him." 

Louis snorts. "Why would you wanna do that?" 

"Cause you've got, like, the perfect face-shape," Harry says, smiling so widely that it has to hurt. 

Louis kicks snow at him. 

Harry gathers a bunch of snow up in his glove and launches it directly into Louis' face.

Louis grabs some loose snow and charges forward to get him back, but then he accidentally trips and smashes half of the snowman's body off. He freezes. " _Shit_." He looks to Harry, who's staring at him, eyes blown as wide as they ever get, "fuck, shit, sorry, I-" 

Harry shuts him up by tackling him to the ground.

They topple around for a few minutes, groaning and slapping and laughing. Eventually, Harry manages to get on top, pin Louis down and rub his entire face in snow. His rough glove scratches at Louis' face, a little too hard, but his skin is already so numb from the snow that it doesn't really matter. He waits, giggling a little, until Harry deems himself done. 

"You gotten enough revenge now, then?" he asks, when Harry finally rests his hand down beside Louis' face. "Or d'you need me to zip down my coat so you can toss some snow on my chest as well?" 

Harry chuckles breathily. "I'm good, thanks." 

"All right." Louis shifts his gaze away from Harry, over toward the patio, just out of habit, just to make sure they're alone out here. 

He feels something synthetic rubbing at his cheek and turns again. It's Harry, 'cupping' the side of his face with his glove-covered hand. Louis smiles and bites at his thumb. 

"Think about it," Harry says, and he almost looks serious. His nose is bright red, his lips nearly purple and the tips of his fringe have gone stiff from the cold. He looks absolutely beautiful. He always does. "By this time tomorrow, you'll be sixteen." 

Louis waggles his brows at him. "Crazy, innit?" 

"Do you think you'll feel different?" Harry asks. 

"From one day to another? Doubt it." Louis watches Harry's eyes for a second, hovering above him. He loves those big green eyes, how intently they watch him sometimes, like he's the only person in the world. Loves these little moments; when he's sure, at least for right now, that they both feel the same. "I'll feel older than you though," he says after a bit, because however good it is to have Harry's undivided attention, it's also always a bit overwhelming, "'cause you'll still be a fifteen-year-old little kid."

Harry sticks his bottom lip out. 

Louis reaches up and taps it with his glove. 

Harry smiles. "Love you." 

"Love you too," Louis says, right away. 

"You look beautiful," Harry replies, eyes big and open and earnest, "even when you've got snow stuck in your nostrils."

Louis sniffles a little, just for show. 

"You look beautiful, Lou. You always do." 

Louis' gaze flicks to the side, just for second, not even long enough to actually see whether they're alone, and then back up at Harry, "kiss me," he whispers, "kiss me right now or I think I might die." 

Harry moves to fit their mouths together, but then, halfway there, he gets startled out of it by a voice calling out; 

"Harryyyyy! Louiiiis!! Are you coming in or what?!" 

Both their heads whip around. It's Nat approaching. She's got her arms crossed over her chest, huge winter boots slowly trekking through the snow.

Once she's close enough for Louis to make out the lines in her face, he sees it. It isn't conspicuous. It isn't hardly anything. You wouldn't even see it, if you weren't looking for it. But Louis sees it; a tiny, _tiny_ , little crease between her brows. A tiny, _tiny_ little uncertain up and down-twitch of the left crook of her mouth. She's seen something. She might not have seen enough to know what she thinks of it. But she's seen _something_. She's seen something more than what she thinks is normal, even if she hasn't quite processed it yet. 

Louis grabs a handful of snow and shoves it into Harry's face, hard enough that he topples off. 

Once he finishes laughing for show and allows Nat to help him off the ground, though, she still mutters, "you two looked rather cosy, huh." 

He thinks he might die.


	21. Chapter 21

Once Christmas and Louis' sixteenth, is over and done with, the next thing to look forward to is Niall and Nat's big New Year's Eve bash. Well, it would be, if you weren't worrying about the fact that Nat may or may not have seen you almost kissing your step-brother. So far she hasn't brought it up, but that might only be attributable to the fact that Louis has made vehemently sure to avoid her at all costs. He has also avoided Niall, just to be on the safe side, since he's pretty certain that anything Nat knows, Niall knows too.

Harry doesn't seem to be the least bit worried. Louis isn't even sure he knows that Nat saw something. He can't be sure, though, since he hasn't asked and isn't going to. The less talk of it, the easier it'll be to fall into a gradual state of total denial and then live happily, as if it never even happened. 

 

 

*

 

**December 31st, 2.30 PM**

On New Years Day, Louis gets a rather unexpected call from Niall. At the time, he and Harry are lying in bed, tangled-up and sweaty after a lazy morning-fuck.

"What's the time," Louis groans as his phone begins to ring.

"Half past two."

He sighs, rolls out of Harry's arms and takes the call. "What are you calling me at half past two pm in the morning for, Neil?" he hisses.

"Sorry, sorry," Niall laughs, "just giving you a heads-up; you might wanna look extra fuckable tonight." 

Louis rubs at his eyes and then slaps Harry's wandering hand off his arse. "I'll be wearing a t-shirt and jeans and there's nothing you can say to make me go any further than stuffing a bit of gel in my hair," he tells Niall, "end of." 

"My gay cousin Lucas is coming tonight." 

Louis jumps into a seated position. "The competitive swimmer?" 

"That's him. Just brought back gold from Switzerland and everythin'." 

Well, then. That changes things.

"Right. Right, I-" Louis has stalked Lucas' Facebook before - just for research purposes, of course. He's basically a blonder, better-teethed, fitter version of Niall. He's really fucking fuckable, "- and you're absolutely certain that he's gay, right? Cause last you were wing-maning me you almost got us both beaten up by six rugby-players." 

Niall laughs again. "Hundred percent. He had a boyfriend." 

"Oh." 

"But now he doesn't." 

"Oh." 

"They broke up just last week." 

" _Oh_." Vulnerable. 

Niall hangs up and Louis sits around chewing at his nails for a bit. He could wear those bright red jeans - provided his arse hasn't grown too much over Christmas. He could pair it with the tight black V-neck, that'd look sexy. And he could-

"Lou- _eh_." Harry pokes him in the flank, sharply. 

"Ew, cut your nails once in a while," Louis hisses, irritated with being forced out of his head and back into the real world so soon. "What's with the face?" 

"Wha'?" Harry rasps. He coughs, fakely, then mutters; "just asking who you were asking Niall about. Who was gay. Was it Niall's cousin? Luke?" 

"Lucas." 

"Yeah... that."

Louis looks him over. He doesn't look jealous, per say. _Per say_. "You jealous?" 

Harry grins. "Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you?" 

"Piss off." 

Louis lies back down with a long sigh, stretching so his joints give nice relieving pops. Harry runs his fingers down the lines of his stomach as he arches off the bed, then surges forward and blows raspberries on it. Louis groans and pushes him off, then catches him in a head-lock and bites him in the cheek. Harry bites him back and then wrestles onto his stomach, one arm twisted onto the small of his back. 

Louis' dick twitches in the sheets. He pushes his arse back on Harry."Round two?"

"You warming up for tonight?" Harry teases, releasing Louis' arm to spread his cheeks on both hands and rub his cock up between them, "for your competitive swimmer..." 

"Yeah," Louis breathes, rolling back on Harry and reveling in the feeling of having him grow between his cheeks, "gonna wear the fuck-me jeans." 

Harry doesn't ask which ones he means. They both know all too well.

"Fuck _me_ , you aren't," he hisses as he throws a hand out for the lube, "you're not wearing those." 

"Not up to you," Louis licks over his teeth as he listens to the sounds of Harry ripping a new condom open on his teeth, and imagines what he looks like, fringe all sweaty, hanging over his eyes, cheeks flushed hot with arousal, "I'll wear whatever the fuck I want." 

Harry pushes a hand into the back of Louis' hair, fisting it as he pushes into him again, hard and rough. He doesn't give Louis a second to adjust, just drops his weight onto Louis' back and begins to fuck him, fast and ruthless.

Louis slaps a hand back to grab at him, feel more of him, even if just his hand.

Harry grabs him by the wrist, pins it to the mattress and hisses out; "you're not wearing those jeans," before weaving his fingers through the back of Louis', pressing Louis' down in the mattress, "because if you are," he gives a needy little forward jump, then buries himself deep and croaks out, "I'll _literally_ have to fuck you into the new year." 

 

*

 

**7.01 PM**

Despite - or due to - Harry's warnings, Louis shimmies into his fuck-me jeans that evening. They still fit, most places, and if they are a _tad_ too small, it's only in the good (slutty) way. Nancy comes over an hour before they're leaving and demands to have her hair tonged. While Louis untangles the chlorine-damaged mess she's made of her tape-ins, Harry fetches three of his mother's rocks glasses and a bottle of the Jack Daniel's she won't notice gone. 

He sits on the carpet, back to the wall, glass rested between his knee and chin, and goes through Lucas' entire Instagram while Louis does Nancy's hair. 

"And what is this? What _is_ this?" he exclaims, turning the phone for them to see. It's a picture of Lucas in a pair of tiny Speedo's, three gold-medals around his neck and six packs of muscle on his stomach. "Who puts a picture like this on their Instagram? I mean, have some dignity... please..." 

Louis groans. "You weren't complaining when Laura posted four bikini-pics in a row." 

"In December," Nancy adds. 

Harry shrugs a shoulder. "Just saying... it's kind of slutty. You wouldn't know what he's got... could have, like... herpes or something." 

"Isn't that jumpin' the gun just a little? A picture in Speedo's equals herpes?" Nancy asks. 

"Better safe than sorry," Harry grunts, then goes to have another sip of his drink and realises he's already drained it all. He reaches for the bottle on the floor between himself and Nancy, but Nancy grabs it between her feet and hoists it up into her lap. 

"I think you've had quite enough, babes," she says, pouring herself some, "gotta last until twelve." 

Louis snatches the glass from her. "Hey, you aren't havin' it either, you're our designated driver." 

"And when did I agree to that again?" 

"Oh, I don't know, maybe around the time I fiddled a piece of week-old chewing gum out of your hair." 

 

*

 

**9.15 PM**

They leave the house fifteen minutes later than planned, - Harry had to re-charge his phone because he'd spent all the juice stalking Lucas' social media - and by the time they're finally strapping on their seat belts, Louis is more than a little buzzed from drinking everyone else's Jack. He somehow ends up in the backseat even though he called shotgun, but he's too tipsy to care. He's finally beginning to fully comprehend what it is today; _it's New Year's Eve, baby_. 

But then - of course - Nancy hits the breaks halfway out of the driveway. "Hang on," she says, "who's that?"

Louis doesn't bother looking up from his phone - where he's innocently inspecting the same Speedo-pics as Harry was earlier - and it isn't until Harry begins to speak that he sees what's happening.

But by then it's already too late.

Nancy jumps out of the car and Harry falls half-way over the driver's seat, trying to catch her by the back of the dress.

" _Shit_!" he hisses, punching at his seat-belt four times before it un-clicks.

He leaps out of the car and Louis slides into the middle-seat to follow the scene through the windshield.  

Lurky Liam is crouched at the end of his garden-path, from the looks of things, drizzling sawdust out of a plastic-bag. He falls onto his arse when Nancy says something to him, then gets halfway up, falls again and begins to choke on sawdust. Nancy grabs him by the arm and hauls him off the ground, then says something to him that seems to make his throat close up. Harry circles them, arms crossed over his chest, nostrils flared and thumb between his teeth. 

Then Nancy says something more. Harry's eyes narrow. Liam stammers something back. Harry seems to accidentally bite down on his thumb, because he hisses loudly and spins around himself. By the time he turns back around, Nancy has said something to Liam that makes Harry go white in the face. 

Next thing he knows, Nancy is dragging Liam toward the car and Harry is marching after them, face like a sour old man. 

"So," Nancy says, jumping back into the driver's seat, "this young man was going to spend New Year's Eve alone. Can't have that." 

Oh. Oh no. No no _no_. "Nancy, you don't-" 

Liam opens the back-seat door and begins to climb in beside Louis. Louis instinctively leaps back to the window-seat. "Uhm, I - I hope it's okay that I-" 

Before Liam finishes, someone grabs him by the back of his t-shirt and hauls him out of the car. "I'll take the backseat. You can go in the front," Harry tells him, then pushes past him and slams the door in Liam's face. While Liam takes his sweet time walking round the car, Harry hisses at Nancy. "Why the fuck would you invite a fuckin' stranger along?" 

"Harry," Nancy sighs, "he's your neighbor, he isn't not a _stranger_. I felt bad for the poor guy, he's obviously got some issues. I mean, what did he say he was doing? Drizzling sawdust on his front-lawn to avoid people firing fireworks up his garden-path? Who thinks that? What is that, is that even a thing, do people-" 

Lurky knocks at the passenger-window. 

Harry sighs loudly. "What, he's forgotten how to open a door now?" 

Nancy gives him a hard look. "It's locked, don't be so mean," she says and opens it, pasting on a bright smile, "come in, mate, we're all glad to have ya." 

"Tha-anks." 

"Right on," Nancy says, snapping her fingers at him.

Harry and Louis communicate by text for the entire ride to Niall's house.

**hairystiles - sorry...**

**lou <3 - not ur fault. fuckin nancy**

**hairystiles - not her fault. she didnt know. fuckin lurker**

**lou <3 - not his fault. he cant help it can he**

**hairystiles - hes staring at u right now**

**lou <3 - dont call him out on it**

**lou <3 - DONT **

**lou <3 - nice, harry. ur not even drunk yet and ur already calling people the c word... **

**hairystiles - i never call people the c word. not even when im drunk u know that. but he needs to know not to be such a creep. u dont even know if hes been lurking at us. you know. when we're cuddling**

**lou <3 - he cant even form a three word sentence how would he ever manage to tell on us**

**hairystiles - idk but its still creepy a f**

**lou <3 - just leave him be**

**hairystiles - now hes staring at me. great.**

**lou <3 - leave it. **

**lou <3 - LEAVE IT HARRY**

**lou <3 - nice... now hes crying **

 

*  

 

**9.24 PM**

When they arrive, the party is already in full going. The house is booming with half of school and all of their friends from outside school. It's a struggle just getting through the entrance hall. Louis makes it, somehow, but he loses Harry in the process. Nancy drags him to the kitchen, where Niall attacks them both in a big drunken bear-hug and hands them viciously Sprite-less vodka and Sprite-drinks. They jump up on the kitchen counter and get drunk with some twelve-year-old kid who claims to knows them from school. By the time they jump off the counter and head out to mingle, the room is blurring at the edges. 

Louis looks at someone's phone over their shoulder; it's not even 10 PM yet. Right. Well, everyone else look pretty pissed too. 

He ends up in the living-room, looking for a familiar face. He can't see anyone at first glance, and all three couches in the room are filled, mostly with drunk, giggling girls.

Then two lads get up to leave and Louis notices a third one on the couch; Harry. He smiles and pats the empty space beside him. 

Drunk and stupid with it, Louis floats across the room and slides right up to his side. "Hey," he says, rolling his head sideways on the backrest to look at Harry.

"Hey, babe," Harry grins, petting his cheek, "you drunk?"

"Nah."

Harry laughs. "Okay." His looks down at Louis' thighs, then up again with a little grin, "how are the fuck me-jeans getting on, then? Met with your swimmer yet?" 

Oh. He'd completely forgotten. "I don't even know if he's here."

He can't tell whether that information is good or bad or nothing at all to Harry. All he does is nod, soften his voice and ask; "can I have a kiss?" 

Louis' gaze flicks around the room full of people. "Are you mental?" 

"Just a little peck," Harry says, shrugging a shoulder, "on the cheek or something." 

Louis glances around again. He could just - just quickly - maybe get away with just- _no_. "No, H, that's stupid." 

Harry shrugs again and leans back. "All right," he says, pulling his phone out, "well, you better go." 

"What? Just cause I-" 

Harry shuts him up by nodding in the direction of the door. "Go get'im, tiger." 

In the door, with Niall's hand slapping his back, hard and repeatedly, stands a tall Greek, yet Scandinavian, God of sorts. He's wearing a slim-fit dark-blue polo shirt, tight around his bulky biceps, and a pair of black jeans, rolled up at the ankles just like Louis'. He's tan, in the warm corn-ish way that blonde boys get, and his eyes are the colour of a clear twelve o'clock-sky. He's not too bad, really. 

Before Louis has a chance to look around himself, Harry has fled the scene and Niall is forcefully guiding the beautiful boy across the room and over to Louis. "And this is my mate, Louis," he tells the boy, "Louis, this is Lucas. The competitive swimmer." He winks over-excitedly behind Lucas' shoulder. "He's flamin' gay." 

Lucas chuckles awkwardly. "Smooth." 

Louis grins, reaching hand out for him. "Hi, mate," he says, "my name is gay, I'm Louis." 

He laughs. He's got perfect teeth. Like, as if they'd been crafted by a mathematician-perfect. "Hey, mate. You're..." 

"He's Harry's step-brother," Niall cuts through, slapping Lucas so hard in the back that he absolutely _must_ fall forward and take a seat beside Louis, "he's sixteen, - _leeeegal_ \- gay as fuck, single and a major slag. Have fun." 

Niall spins around on his heel and disappears. 

"Right," Lucas scratches at the back of his neck and chuckles awkwardly again, "well... didn't quite catch that - did he say you were straight or-" 

Louis laughs, his shoulders un-tensing with it. "Gay. Gay, I think what he said was - gay. Gay." 

"Gay. Right, so-"

"So basically, not straight. Not into women. Gay. Into men. Gay." 

"Right." Lucas laughs behind his teeth while he nods. He's _so_ fit. "And here I was, thinking he introduced us because we were both wearing rolled up-trousers." 

"Right," Louis cackles.

He glances down his jeans and when he looks back up, Lucas is staring at his thighs. He quickly looks away, pretending that he was just scouting the room for something to drink, but Louis caught it. The fuck me-jeans - even when he's sitting down on his greatest asset - are doing their job. This could work out.

"So," Louis says, stretching his legs out and resting his feet on the coffee-table, "Lucas," he stretches his arms out too, round the backrest of the couch, and smiles, "your boyfriend must be missing you now that you're here on New Years, eh?" 

"I'm sure he does," Lucas' eyes shamelessly follow the hem of Louis' jeans, from his ankles to his hip, before he mutters, "problem is, he doesn't exist." 

"Oh," Louis widens his smile, "well. Guess you'll just have to settle for me for tonight. Think you'll survive?" 

Lucas' gaze rolls up to Louis' arm, innocently placed behind his own shoulders, up his tan bicep, before he finally meets Louis' eyes, sultry through his lashes. "I'm not quite sure." 

 

*

 

**11.46 PM**

They're sitting on a bench on Niall's patio, watching premature fireworks going off around the sky. Lucas has an arm around Louis' shoulders and another rested in his lap as he gestures drunkenly to Leo, deep in a heated discussion on what's better; Nike or Adidas.

Across the garden, Harry is standing close with a girl Louis can't tell who is, smirking at everything she says, in that way that always gets him away with not ever _actually_ saying anything. She has slapped his arm playfully seven times so far - Louis has kept count. Harry has looked over her shoulder and met Louis' eye about half that amount - he's also kept count of that.

The girl shoves Harry in the stomach now, appalled at something he's just said with his eyes, and then giggles and steps double as close as she was before. Harry stays static, face in a permanent half-smirk, one arm rested over the top of a square-trimmed bush, waiting patiently for the clock to reach twelve so he can snog her and shut her up.

The bench creaks and rustles. Leo get up. Louis is alone with Lucas again. 

"So," Lucas says, cracking his knuckles, "have you got any idea who you might be... you know... kissing?" 

"Kissing?" 

"At midnight." 

Right. Louis turns his flirt back on. "Oh, I don't know," he murmurs, subtly nodding his head downwards so he has to look up to meet Lucas' eye, "I mean, Niall's been getting at me all night, so-" 

"Oh, right. Oh yeah, I see," Lucas grins, "poor Nat." 

"No, she wants it to happen." 

Lucas' closed-mouthed grin widens as he nods in faux-understanding. "Kinky like that, is she?" 

"You have no idea." 

"Well," Lucas drops his gaze, and his smile, for a second, "if you aren't into the whole three way-thing, I'll have you know that I have no prior commitments for tonight. So... if you feel like settling, my lips are here. If you don't find better, of course." 

Louis raises his brows. "Is that so?" 

"M-hm. I'll be your midnight kiss if you can't find better." 

Louis rolls his eyes. Then he touches his fingers to the warm, hairy skin right at the bottom of Lucas' polo and leans in, "why wait?" 

They kiss then.

Lucas tastes like vodka and Sour-shots and breath-mints, and he smells a bit like Chlorine close-up, but maybe that's just his swimmer's body playing Louis a trick. He snogs slowly, a little too lazily for Louis' taste, but not the worst he's had. What he lacks in the mouth-department he makes up for further down; they've only been snogging for half a minute when Lucas' hand 'slips' down from Louis waist to his arse, then his thigh, hitching it over his own lap. Louis goes with it, sticks his hands up Lucas' shirt and grabs and grasps at his abs, at the muscles in his lower back and the curly trail of hair that follow up to his belly-button. 

When Lucas tries to slip a hand down the back of Louis' jeans, though, he pulls out of the kiss, pressing a firm palm to his chest. "Save a bit for twelve, should we?" 

"Right, yeah, 'course," Lucas wipes a hand over his mouth and nods, "right, okay." A second passes. "Or, ehm - my car's parked right down the street." 

Louis pushes off the bench. "Yeah, let's go." 

They make it off the bench, half-way across the patio and then it happens.

It isn't a chain-reaction of shit going wrong. It isn't a firework changing direction and crashing into Lucas' leg. It isn't anything anyone could've ever predicted - or maybe it's _exactly_ what Louis should've predicted. 

It's Lurky Liam.

Stumbling out onto the patio with Nancy running after him, he nearly crashes into a table, then a person and then another person. Finally, he stops, right on front of Lucas. "I don't feel szo well," he slurs out. Then he pukes all over Lucas' shoes. 

For a second, it's as if time stands frozen. It's as if what's happened is so incomprehensible that none of their minds can actually accept it. It's as if no one knows whether this is bad, horrible or just a little bit funny. It all depends on the next three seconds.

It all depends on Lucas.

"Oh my god," he finally says, what feels like three or four minutes after the happening, "oh my god," he says again, a bit louder this time. He takes a step backwards, staring at his feet in horror, "oh... my... _god_..." 

"Bloody hell, mate," Nancy says, grabbing Liam under the arms to keep him standing, "I've gotta take this one home," she nods at Lucas, who's still just chanting 'oh my god' to himself on repeat, "and sorry mate, but don't be too worried; pretty sure vodka and stomach acid comes off easy."

She hauls Liam back inside, grunting and groaning from having to support his entire weight. 

Louis turns to Lucas. He gives a dry chuckle, hoping to defuse some of the tension. "Sorry 'bout that, mate, hope your shoes aren't too expensi-" 

" _They are_ ," Lucas hisses, so harshly that Louis' stomach jumps. The puke isn't even that bad; there's no thickness or any little yellowish lumps in it. It's just spirits and orange juice, mainly. "Oh my god, this is just - wow, this is just - _fuck_!" Lucas begins to jump like a 1950's housewife who's seen a mouse in her kitchen, whipping his hands up and down, and _wow_ , Louis hadn't noticed how loose this wrists were till now. "Oh my god, this is just, this is exactly why I don't wear nice things! _Urgh_!" he screams. 

He sets into a sprinty march, back inside and through the masses on their way out to see the fireworks. It's something near impossible to follow him through the counter-current of drunks, but Louis pushes on, pinning that blonde head of hair down at all times.

He catches Lucas at his car, just as he's trowing his puke-shoes in the boot. "Jesus, mate, I'm sorry Li- that random bloke puked on your shoes, but - s'it really mean you have to leave?" 

Lucas slams the boot shut. "Yes," he replies, shoulder-bumping Louis to get past him, polka-dot socks on the gravelly asphalt, "I should've known better than to let Niall talk me into coming here. This kind of shit _always_ happens when I come to visit him." 

Well. Louis doesn't _not_ believe him. But that's beside the point. "Mate," he sighs as Lucas slips into the driver's seat and closes the door behind him. Louis knocks on the window for thirty seconds straight until Lucas finally rolls it down. " _Mate_ ," he repeats, "would you please just - just come and watch the fireworks with me? It's like, two minutes to twelve, it's ridiculous not lasting another two minutes." 

"You know what, Lewis?" 

Rude. "Louis." 

"Louis, Lewis, fuckin' Louise, don't get shit twisted here. I've got a bloke back in Manchester and the second he gets over shit and wants to have me back, that's where I'll be. So find someone else to watch the fireworks with, I'm not your guy." 

"Wow," Louis says, and he'd be lying if he said he weren't slightly offended, "don't _you_ get it twisted either, mate. All I wanted was a quick shag and you were the only option, so don't go and act like I'm thinkin' it was more than that. Of course I wasn't, if you'd given me your cell I'd have lost it as soon as you'd left." He may or may not be lying, depending on the sex. 

"Good for you," Lucas replies simply. He rolls the window halfway up, then stops, looks Louis over and adds; "one day you'll have a bloke you'll always come back to no matter what. You'll know what it is for sex to mean more than just getting off - you'll know it because they just feel right. And hopefully, they'll be around to kiss you at midnight so you won't have to snog the face off someone who's cell you're already planning to lose. Goodbye, Louis. Happy New Year's." 

And as Louis stands there, watching his shag of the night driving off, the clock reaches twelve and the fireworks go off. Happy New Year's indeed...

 

*

 

**5.07 AM**

He's walking down a hall. He isn't sure how he got here or whether he's upstairs, downstairs or somewhere in between. There's an open door to what looks like a guest bedroom and there are three people hooking up in there. There's a Joseph, slouched across the hall, snoring into a glittery party-hat. There's a Leo beside him, snoring into a crackling little party-horn. There's a headache, right behind Louis' temples, reminding him that it's been two hours since he last had a drink. 

He can't be bothered to go on now. The party is dead and Louis is bloody knackered. 

He stumbles into Niall's bedroom, his drunkish mind telling him there's a possibility that Niall and Nat won't be in there. They are, curled together on the side of Niall's bed, but to Louis' luck they aren't shagging - anymore anyway - and there's more than enough space left for Louis so slip in and have a kip. He toes off his trainers, shimmies out of his jeans and crawls under the spare duvet.

He rolls onto his side to face away from Niat, and then - then he sees it; in the corner of the room, crumbled awkwardly up in Niall's office-chair, sits Harry, in boxers and his shirt.

He isn't even sleeping. He's fucking around on his phone. 

"Psst," Louis hisses, "what are you doing?" 

Harry's head snaps up. His pupils are shot and there's a lock of hair stuck to his mouth. He's got that particular drunk-Harry flush that Louis could recognize a mile away by now. Luckily, he isn't so pissed that he can't form a sentence; "what are you doing in here?" he whispers. 

"Sleeping," Louis whispers back. 

Harry smacks his lips. He glances around Louis, smacks them again and asks; "room for me?" 

Louis shrugs. 

Harry takes it as a yes and gets out of his chair. He leaves the phone by the nightstand, tells Louis to budge up and then slips in beside him, taking half of the pillow.

Louis lies on his back, a little stiff from being sandwiched between Niat and Harry, but Harry just shifts onto his side, splays a hand out on his stomach and asks; "so, how'd it go with Luke?" 

"Lucas."

"Whatever." 

Louis opens his eyes to see if Harry did it on purpose. He did, it seems. "You're so jealous," Louis snorts, self-satisfied.  

"You're so stupid," Harry replies, chuckling at him. 

"Right," Louis says, and Harry really is, because the next thing Louis does is rake his fingers into the back of his hair, tip his head back and fit their mouths together. Harry tastes like champagne and spearmint and he kisses sloppily, like he always does after a drink, too lazy and needy about it at the same time, like an entitled over-sized baby.

And yet. He just feels right.


	22. Chapter 22

He wakes with a throbbing pain at the back of his skull. He wakes with a desert-dry mouth and a feeling of being on a rupturing water-bed, even though he isn't. He wakes with Harry, wrapped tightly around him, big and warm and sweaty and hard, pressing persistently against his arse. 

They're alone in bed now, the only trace left of Nat and Niall a few crinkles in the bed-sheets. 

Louis throws a hand back to grab Harry by the back of the knee and hitch his thigh over his own hip. Harry moves into it with a grunt, pressing his hard bulge deeper into the fabric of Louis' boxers. His soft lips press to the back of Louis' head, then the side of his neck and the back of his shoulder. "Morning," he says, all rasp and no voice, "sleep well?" 

"M-hm." Louis grinds back on him, if nothing else then just to feel a bit less like utter death. It's been a while since he's been like this; in bed and afraid to get out because he knows the second he gets vertical his body will remind  _exactly_ how hung-over he really is. "You?" 

"All right, thanks," Harry hums, closing his arm around Louis' stomach and pressing another kiss to his skin, right where his shoulder meets the side of his neck, "always sleep all right when it's with you, babes." 

Louis elbows him in the flank. "Stop being a dick." 

"In what way was _that_ being a dick?" 

"'Cause..." Cause Louis loves sarcasm as much as the next guy, probably even more, but it always feels a little bit disheartening when it's used in the context of him and Harry, "'cause you're a dick, that's why." 

Harry sighs, the huff of his breath raising the hairs on the nape of Louis' neck. "You're so weird sometimes, Lou." 

"You too," Louis snaps back, just because. 

"And childish," Harry mutters. He rests his mouth against the back of Louis' shoulder and Louis almost doesn't hear it when he adds, "still love you though." 

But, since he does, he can't really stop himself from answering, just because. "Love you too." 

"Do you?" Harry gives Louis' shoulder a little bite, "do you really?" he rolls his hips forward, "how much exactly?" 

Louis rolls his eyes, but shifts around to look at Harry anyway. He meets one big puffy-eyed smile, then receives a wet peck on the lips.

"You got a hang-over?" Harry asks. 

"Yeah. You?" 

"No. Rarely ever." He gives a shit-eating grin. "Guess I'm just lucky like that." 

"Oh, piss off, would you?" 

Harry doesn't laugh, just slides both hands up to cup Louis' face and presses his thumbs into his temples. "There?" 

"Mhm," Louis hums, the slight pressure already a relief, "bit further back." 

"C'mere." Harry draws him in, pressing a kiss to his forehead, then rests Louis' head against his own shoulder, wrapping his other arm around his waist. He moves his hand into the back of Louis' head, driving his strong fingers from the nape of his neck and up through his hair. "S'it help?" 

"Hm," Louis hums softly, nodding into his shoulder.

Harry locks his legs around him, massaging him gently, occasionally pressing a kiss to his hair or temple. Louis plays with waistband of Harry's pants, feels at the cute pudginess of his hip and hides a laugh in his shoulder when he tells Louis off for 'grabbing on his fat'. 

As they lie there, nestled up in their own little world, they don't even hear the door being opened.

They don't hear a thing until Nat says; "Niall told me to say we've got a bit of brekkie downstairs for everyone who slept over." 

Louis jerks out of Harry’s grip, shifts around and - for no logical reason what so ever - yanks the duvet up to cover his chest. “ _Wha_ ’?”

“Brekkie,” Nat repeats. She’s hanging in the doorway, arms loosely crossed over her chest, and there's a frighteningly calm look in her eyes. She _knows_. She knows and - and she doesn’t seem to care. She doesn’t even seem to want to know more. “Downstairs. Come if you’re hungry,” she says.

Then she turns and leaves before Harry or Louis have a chance to get another word in.

They lie there for a while, flabbergasted, staring at the empty doorway.

In the end, it’s Harry who breaks the silence; “d’you reckon she-”

“Yes,” Louis cuts through, because that isn't even slightly up for discussion.

“But, like...” Harry goes on, and it sounds like he knows Louis is right, but finds it so unacceptable that he’s forcing himself to be just a tiny bit uncertain still, “she didn’t seem to-”

“Care,” Louis bites at his nail, “no. I know.”

Harry shifts around behind him, sitting up straight. His hand slides down to rest on Louis’ thigh and it isn’t even on purpose, but Louis still whacks it right off. Harry doesn’t seem to care or notice. “But, uhm…” he just mutters to himself, “but… d’you reckon she’d-”

“Tell Niall? I hope not,” Louis says, but it’s mostly just to calm Harry. There isn’t any hope left. If she hasn’t already told Niall she will soon. It’s only a matter of time. So… “Let’s get out of here.”

“Right behind ya. - I mean, not, not in a sexual way, just-”

“Harry, for the love of _God_.”  

 

*

 

They head out without saying goodbye. They walk home without uttering a single word to one-another. By the time they reach the bushes that lead to their garden-path Louis has almost forgotten what Harry sounds like.

He stops on the pavement before they reach their house, grabbing Harry’s wrist to stop him too. “Wait.”

Harry turns, raising his brows in question, and, just like that, Louis loses his words.

“Yeah? What?” Harry asks eventually, when Louis still hasn’t found a valid reason as to why he stopped them mid-pavement. “You wanna talk about it?”

No. _No_. “No.”

“What, then?”

Louis drops his chin to his chest, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “It just… feels like we’re, ehm, in a mood with each other and-”

“We’re not,” Harry exclaims, his voice suddenly a million times softer than a second ago. His hand comes up to the side of Louis’ neck, just resting there, gently, “we’re not, bubz," he repeats, and Louis ignores the way the term of endearment makes his ears light on fire, "I just, uhm, dunno what to say," Harry continues, "do we, like… do we… is- is this, like a… a thing you want Nat and them to know about? Or do we just pretend she doesn’t know and hope her and Niall don’t talk? ‘Cause I’m… I’m not sure…”

Louis lift his head just to look at him. He still can’t really read him. “What d'you mean?”

“Just, uhm…” Harry’s hand slips from Louis’ neck down to his waist. He drags them both closer to the bush, further out of sight. “I’m not sure whether you’re all right with a couple of our mates knowing or-”

“ _Fuck_ no!” Louis blurts, voice raising about ten octaves with it. 

Harry laughs breathily. “Okay. Okay, no… well. Then.” He grins a little, gaze flicking around. “Uhm, I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“I haven’t been asking you to say anything.”

“No, but-” he chuckles at himself, the big awkward sod, “no. All right. Well. Well, it’s probably for the best, then.”

“That you don’t know what to say or?”

“No,” Harry laughs again, “no. That - that people don’t know. About stuff. With us. I mean, I trust Nat and Niall with stuff so it’s not like I’m freaking out or anything, but - but I wouldn’t want’em to tell mum and your dad and stuff. Because that would probably be kind of…”

“Weird.”

He smiles. “Yeah. Weird.”

That’s the thing. It _is_ weird. Sometimes, when Harry, Louis and Gemma cuddle up and watch telly all Sunday, and Gemma says something like ‘it’s so nice just to be with family once in a while, so you don’t even have to care what you look like, you can just fart around and be gross’, it’s really weird.  Sometimes, when Anne takes a picture of Harry and Louis doing the dishes together and posts it on Facebook with the caption ‘my lovely sons’ or ‘the dream team #bestbrothers#familylife’ it’s really _really_ weird.

And sometimes, like right now,  when Louis looks up at Harry and Harry looks down at him and they’re not even looking each other in the eye, they’re staring at each other’s mouths, it's so _not_ weird that Louis couldn’t stop it if he tried.

“Kiss me,” he hears himself say.

“Here?” Harry asks, but he’s moving closer all the same, “isn’t it sort of risky?”

Louis cocks his head back, parting his lips as Harry’s comes close enough to taste. “Doesn’t that make it even hotter?”

Harry slams his lips to Louis’.

Louis digs his fingers into his hair, shoves his tongue into his mouth and licks, pushes, _bites_ at him. Wants him so bad so suddenly that he might burn up and die from it. He grabs and clasps at Harry’s shirt, the front of it, the back of it, the hot skin up under it.

Harry grabs Louis’ arse so hard he forces him onto his tip-toes and nearly falls backwards when Louis tips into him.

At some point, Harry pulls out of the kiss, gasping for air, a thick string of saliva connecting them still. “We can’t go inside now, you’ve got me so hard,” he pants, not even noticing how the saliva-string breaks and clings to his chin.

Without thinking, Louis surges forward and licks it off his chin.

Harry groans at it, bites at Louis’ lip and grabs at the underside of his thighs, trying to lift him off the ground. He succeeds once Louis gets the message, and steadies Louis up against the bush. It's only then that Louis realises how pathetically sappy it is that they’re snogging right in the same spot that Harry first kissed him by accident. That feels like years ago now.

Harry hitches him up higher and Louis closes his legs around his waist harder.

“You're so fucking hot,” Harry grunts, moving on from Louis’ mouth down his neck, rough and hungry about it.

Louis throws his head back on a breathy moan, granting Harry better access. His eyes flutter closed, then open again, just for a second, and he looks across the street. He finds himself actually checking to see whether Lurky Liam or Alcoholic Neighbor Lady or Paper-Stealing Neighbor Family-Father are out to see them.

They aren’t, but it’s still too risky, even if risking it _is_ hot. They’ll be hot enough without it. “Harry, we’ve got to - we’ve - we’ve got to stop.”

“No. Not now,” Harry hisses, pressing up against Louis so hard that it really isn’t necessary for him to utter his next words, “m’way too hard right now.”

Louis sighs exasperatedly, scouting the street. “Okay, ehm, I…” then his eyes fall upon an option. It’s filthy, it’s vile and it’ll definitely go down as the least classy thing he’s done in his life. He still goes ahead and suggests it; “behind the dumpsters, come on.”

Harry sets him down and heads fast toward the little fenced-up square containing four big dumpsters at the end of the street.

“Fuckin’ ell,” Louis exclaims as he follows Harry in and has a look at the massive tent in his trousers, “that’s gotta be painful.”

“Shut up and get on your knees,” Harry replies, but he can’t keep a straight face, not even for half a second, his face breaking up in a million little crinkles.

Louis rolls his eyes, then shoves him up against the fence and begins to fiddle with his belt buckle.

He gets them both out of their pants, just enough that he can get a hand on them and begin to tug them off, fast.

“ _Arh_ , fuck,” Harry hisses, after just a minute or so. He throws his head back against the fence, wet red lips falling slack, “ _fuck_ , I’m getting close, babe.”

Louis speeds up, pushing closer to pepper bitey little kisses around Harry’s face, his sweaty cheekbone where damp little curls stick and his _filthy_ fucking mouth. Harry comes, moaning into his mouth and creaming all over his hand. After tugging him dry, Louis lets Harry's cock slip out of his hand.

He continues to strip himself off again, but Harry won't have it.

“Let me,” he says, taking Louis’ dick in hand.

Harry works in fast, choppy jerks, mostly around the head and Louis fists a hand up in the front of his shirt, feeling his lower belly tightening up with it. He clasps at Harry's hot-flushed face and, as a result, smears Harry’s own come all over the side of his face.Harry gives a little laugh, but isn’t deterred by, tugging Louis off so fast he’s hunched and hanging on Harry just to keep standing.

“You gonna come for me?” Harry pants, “come for me, Lou, I want you to come in my hand.”

“Yeah?” Louis breathes, lips at Harry’s collarbone, teeth parted over his skin, “you’re so fuckin’ filthy, Harry, fuckin' covered in your own cum,” he blurts, and, insane with how close to coming he is, decides to push some of Harry’s come from his cheek and into his mouth by the thumb.

Harry arches a brow and his cheek crinkles up on a grin, but he doesn't object, just licks Louis’ thumb clean and sucks on it after.

Louis comes then, thumb behind Harry’s teeth and fingers digging into his jaw. He drops his forehead to the crook of Harry’s neck as he empties himself all over his hand and Harry keeps jerking him, keeps going until he’s so drained and sensitive that he has to tell him to stop.

Harry sticks his hand further down, feeling at Louis’ balls and Louis hisses at it, too sensitive, but Harry just presses a kiss to his forehead and murmurs; “shh, m’just feeling.”

“Why?” Louis breathes, and he’d be jelly on the ground right now if Harry weren’t holding him up against himself by the waist.

Harry takes his hand out of Louis’ pants and wipes it off in the fence behind him. “Just wanted to feel you,” he says, so matter-of-fact that Louis doesn’t have it in him to mock him for his weirdness.

“D’you realise I just made you eat your own come?” he asks, because that's pretty weird too.

Harry grins. “Pretty disgusting, innit. When you think about it.”

“Yeah,” Louis chuckles, “most things are, really. Once you’ve finished.”

Harry nods and wipes the worst of the come off his face by the back of his sleeve. “Not you, though,” he says, “you’re the same after as before.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs and pulls Louis closer, wraps his arms around him and hooks his chin over his shoulder. “Just, like... some people,” he drawls, fingers scratching lightly at the back of Louis’ shirt, “once you’ve had’em you don’t find’em as fit afterwards. You just, kind of like… want’em to leave, you know? Because… they’re not this amazingly fit person that you just _have_  to get in… you know? They’re just… meh.”

“What, and I’m just a supermodel all the time or?”

Harry laughs. “ _No_ ,” he exclaims, and Louis resists the urge to jab him, “no, just - well yeah, 'course, you're stunnin', but it’s not… I don’t know, you just… what I mean is, like... you don’t want to stop kissing you… once you’ve already had you. You know.”

“Harry, I’m only saying this as your friend; sometimes you make literally _zero_ sense what so ever.”

Harry barks a laugh. “Sorry. Nevermind, it was stupid, m'not even sure it made sense in my head...”

“No, didn't think so," Louis laughs.

But, he does get it. However much he'd like to pretend that he doesn’t get exactly what Harry said, or at least _meant_ to say, he still does. With Harry, it's never a case of wanting something you can't have and then chucking it away once it's easily accessible. It's never case of putting something on a pedestal because it's hard to get and later on realising it's just as good as any old crap. It isn't like that.

Once you've had him, you really don’t want to stop kissing. Ever. It's something like that.


	23. Chapter 23

"Ah-  _ah_ \- arh, fuck yeah, that's so good..." 

Harry's hip squirm around in the sheets. He wants to fuck upwards as he comes, but Louis knows that now, having given him head about a million times at this point. Therefore, he presses the hands he already had firmly planted on Harry's hips down in the mattress and takes him - without having to gag. He takes every last drop while lightly cupping Harry's balls, licks over the slit and then finally pops off of him. 

He sits up, slaps off the duvet he was covered by and makes sure Harry sees him swallow. 

"Good boy," Harry says, reaching forward to pet Louis' cheek. " _Aaah_ ," he sighs, folding both arms up behind his head and relaxing back into his pillows, "what a wonderful way to start the day." 

Louis tucks Harry's dick back in his pants and straddles him. "Well, it is your birthday after all." 

"It is, isn't it?" Harry slides his hands up Louis' thighs, thick as they frame his hips, "s'that mean I don't have to return the favor?" 

"Not unless you want to." 

"Course I want to, you idiot," Harry grins, giving his thighs a squeeze, "besides, you've gotten way too much practice lately. I've got to at least _try_  to keep up with your mad skills."

Louis laughs. " _My mad skillzz_."

"Yeah." Harry pats Louis' knees, "come on, then, get on your back and I'll try to do that swirly-thing you did with the-" 

" _Louuuuuiiiiiiiiiiis_!"  

" _Shit-_ "

Louis pushes off of Harry, stumbles out of bed, pauses in front of the door for a second to make sure his half-chub isn't too conspicuous, then sprints out of there and into his own room. He throws on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and runs downstairs.

Anne is taking the buns out of the oven, Gemma is just finishing up setting the table and Troy is, from the looks of things, attempting to make hot chocolate on the stove.

"Hey, guys. Who called?" 

"Me," Gemma mutters, "can you go up to mum's room and get the presents?" 

"Jesus," Louis groans, "I was just up there, couldn't you have said it before I came down?" 

"Hey now," Anne says, in such a soft voice that Louis knows she's suppressing irritation, "it's Harry's birthday, no complaining. Don't make this about you." 

Louis sighs. He considers telling her that he's just been so lovely and unselfish as to wake the birthday-boy with a nice unprompted blowjob, but decides against it. She'd probably take it the wrong way.

He fetches Harry's - ridiculous amount of - presents and takes them down to the meticulously decorated dining-table. There are buns, hot cocoa, whipped cream, eggs, bacon and beans. For a second, Louis feels a twang of bitterness at the unfairness of his life - why does Harry get all of this to himself when Louis has to share his birthday with fucking _everyone_? - but then he thinks better of it; Harry can't possibly eat all this delicious food on his own. 

Anne tells everyone to sit down around the table and then insists that they stay like that and wait until Harry naturally comes down - ' _you can't pull someone out of sleep on their sixteenth birthday. That'd just be downright cruel_ '. Louis tries to explain to her that Harry is already awake - very much so - but she won't have it. - ' _give him his time to get himself ready and to come to us. It's his day, Louis, have a bit of patience_ '.

In the end, Gemma pretends to run upstairs to get something from her room and, conveniently, comes back down with Harry in tow. 

" _Happy birthday to youuuuu_ ," Anne begins, waving manically for the rest to follow, " _happy birthday toooo youuu-_ "

" _Happy birthday dear, Harryyyy_ ," Louis and Troy chime in lazily, " _happy birthday to youuuu_..." 

Harry grins at Louis, silently taking a seat as the family sing him the most rusty, false, out-of-tune morning-voiced shit-birthday song of all time.

"Happy birthdaaaaay!" Anne screams the second they finally finish.

She jumps up and hugs him, burying his face in her breasts by default, and he gasps for air by the time she finally pulls back.

She doesn't notice, grabbing his rubbery cheeks by both hands and ruffling them."My baby is sixteen years old," she exclaims, and oh shit, her voice is cracking over, "oh, I can't believe it, this can't be real. I feel like it was only weeks ago that I was locked in the intensive-unit for three days because you weighed so much I ripped from vagina to arse." 

Louis chokes on hot chocolate. 

"Haha, mum..." Harry drawls, and then turns his attention to the table, "this looks amazing. Can I have a bun?" 

"You can have anything you want, my love," she takes a seat and begins to cut a bun for him, "today you can have as many buns and cakes as you'd like."

"But on all the other days, you'd better watch that gut you're growing," Louis mutters, slapping him lightly in the tummy. 

Harry laughs. "By the way, was meaning to tell you something; heard a bit of your voice when you were singing for me just now..." 

"- and?" 

Harry shrugs. "I'm not saying you were shit, but..." he makes an annoying clicking sound, "don't quit ya day-job." 

Louis kicks him under the table. 

"Heeeey," Harry whines, "no domestic violence on my birthday." He takes a bite of the disgusting butter and Nutella-bun Anne's just handed him, and then speaks before chewing; "and don't get pissy with me just 'cause you ain't got the voice of an angel like me." 

"Oh get over yourself, you won _one_ contest in year six and your mum was sleeping with the judge." 

Harry scoffs. "Don't get so defensive, Louis. I'm just counting myself lucky; at least you had the other's to sing over you and hide the fact that you sound like a gay eleven-year-old who's just been slam-punched in the balls." 

Louis can't stop himself from laughing. "You are so mean," he chuckles. 

"Hey, honesty is key, innit?"

"Yeah, and lying by omission is too if you want to keep anyone around for more than a few wee-"  

"You two are so caught up in your own little world sometimes," Gemma cuts in from across the table. She's got half her face rested in her hand and a drowsy smile on her lips. "It's adorable." 

Louis chuckles awkwardly and reaches for a bun just to have something to do with his hands. 

"No, really, it's _so_ cute," Gemma goes on, "the other day I came home and they were asleep on the couch, spooning," she tells Anne.

Anne giggles and coos at it. Troy coughs. Louis' ears feel hot. 

"And the other night I went down to borrow Lou's earplugs and he was sleeping in Harry's room," Gemma continues, "isn't it cute?" 

Troy coughs harder. Anne doesn't giggle this time. 

"That _is_ cute," Anne lies, giving a strained smile down at her plate, "you having trouble with the heating in your room still, Louis?" 

Louis doesn't know what the hell she's talking about, but leaps at the opportunity for an excuse; "yeah! - yeah, I was - I was really cold and I went to tell Harry and, you know, he's a mate so he said I could just crash in his bed. For one night. Heh... Proper good lad, him. A mate. A bro. A comrad-" 

Harry steps on his toe. 

-

After a few more buns and uncomfortable silences, Harry opens his presents. He gets; a new bike, seven video-games, three pairs of expensive trainers, what looks like two lifetimes worth of boxer-shorts and then, as if the mood wasn't already awkward enough, a packet of condoms. From Anne. 

"Now, I'm not saying you need to use these. Personally, I'd say you're at least five years too young to even be thinking about that kind of thing yet. But, you're sixteen now and should you ever get a girlfriend, I want you to be safe. There are loads of weird diseases out there in the world. Girls aren't what they used to be. They wear tights like trousers and jump from bed to bed, collecting all sorts of things nowadays. You can never be too safe." 

"Thanks, mum..." Harry mutters.

Louis presses his nails into the side of his own thigh to keep from laughing. 

"Pfft," Gemma snorts, "he's been shagging since he was thirteen, mum." 

Anne widens her smile so much she looks like a maniac. "So," she says, clapping her hands together, "should we go out and test-drive your new bike, Harry?" 

Louis bursts out laughing. 

 

* 

 

In the afternoon, Harry and Louis pop by Niall's to collect another awkward birthday-song and a present. Harry gets a cup. Niall bought him a cup. 

They head home again soon, because Troy and Anne have made dinner-reservations at Harry's favorite restaurant. They take showers, put on nice shirts and drive to the Italian place that Harry loves. It's quirky, it's fancy and it has hot waitresses. It makes sense. 

Anne makes a speech about motherhood and childhood and manhood and step family-hood. Every word comes from a place of pure love and compassion, but Louis still experiences a near-fatal case of full body-cringe. He survives, somehow, and then they're finally on their way home again. 

Anne gives Harry a last surprise present - Gemma tells Louis she's been 'surprising' them like that on every birthday since she was five.

The present is a framed picture for Harry's room. A framed picture, of Harry and Louis.

It must've been taken back in the bungalow. They're in the pool, shoving each other around, and it looks fun, although Harry has the complexion of uncooked ham and Louis' shorts are falling halfway down his arse. But, the photo is huge. It's been blown up bigger than Louis' flat-screen.

And that's not even the worst part. The worst part is, in huge fat black block-letters, the homemade caption: 

' **BROTHERS WHO PLAY TOGETHER STAY TOGETHER** '. 

Louis stares at it, speechless.

"So," Anne says, holding the photo up, "what do you reckon? I was thinking it would go right above your bed, Harry. It's such a lovely photo, don't you think? You really do look like brothers here." 

Louis scoffs loudly. "I wouldn't say _brothers_ -" 

"No, she's right, you do," Troy cuts through, "you really do. If I didn't know better I'd say you were twins." 

"That's really not-" 

"Identical," Gemma agrees, "absolutely indistinguishable. What an incredible resemblance, I've never seen anything like-" 

" _We get it_!" Louis screams.

"Jesus, Louis," Anne exclaims, so annoyingly baffled at his outburst that he'd want to slap her if she wasn't a woman, "don't scream like that. _Please_." 

Louis sighs, straining to calm himself. "I'm sorry," he grits out. 

"Yeah," Anne shakes her head at him, "at least save it for another time. When it isn't your own _brother's_ birthday." 

Louis walks out. 

 

*

 

The photo gets hung above Harry's bed, despite his weak objections. Maybe he's afraid they'll start asking questions if he's too against it or maybe he just genuinely doesn't give a shit. If it's the latter, Louis wishes he were Harry. He wishes he were able to not care about stuff, just once in a while, just think 'fuck it' and go with the flow. But he's just not wired like that. He gives a shit, about what Anne and Gemma and his dad think of him. He gives a shit, about the fact that he's doing something every day (more or less) that's considered disgusting and he just can't seem to stop himself.

He gives shit, about what people think.

And even if he didn't, even if he _could_ get over it, he'd still give a shit about what he thinks of himself. And what he thinks of himself, when he sees that stupid photo with that stupid caption get hung above Harry's bed, where they've been fuckin each other stupid for months and months, is ' _ew_ '. He thinks ' _ew_ '. 

That evening, he locks the bathroom door as he showers and changes before he steps out. He slips into bed and tells Harry that he's got to finish some reading for school when he comes in to say goodnight. 

"Seriously?" Harry asks.

"Seriously," Louis mutters, straining not to look up from the book he isn't reading. 

Harry hangs in the door for another minute. By the time he finally speaks again, the air in the room is so tense Louis feels like he's choking. "You gonna come into my room when you're done?" 

"No," Louis says, quickly, because if he lets himself think about it, even for a second, he probably won't be able to decline. 

It's quiet again. Then Harry drawls; "but... like..." 

Louis sighs, closing his book. "But what, Harry?"

Looking up was a mistake. Harry is in a pair of his new boxers - the hot pink ones. They bring out both his lips, his eyes and his dick. 

"Just..." Harry scratches behind his ear, "ehm... I thought you might want to, like... come in for a cuddle or something. Since it's my birthday."  

Louis sighs. "Haz, I'm - can we do it another day?" 

"Nooo..." Harry pouts. "It's only my birthday today. Why don't you wanna? It's only my birthday once a year and you're literally up for it _every_ other day but today." 

It's all true. It's shit of Louis, he knows. But he can't really change how weird he feels about stuff. How much it makes him gag a little; the thought of having sex with his _step-brother_ underneath a photo his _step-mother_ gave them with the caption ' _Brothers who play together stay together_ '. It's just a little too... _ew_. When you really think about it.

"I'm sorry, Haz. I've got to read this and I'm _so_  knackered. I gave you head earlier, I don't know what you're so bothered about." 

Harry sighs, an outdrawn disheartening sound. "Sorry... I was just feeling it, but never mind, then. Nevermind." 

He leaves then.

Louis jerks himself off that night and Harry probably does too. Louis thinks of Harry as he does it, thinks of all the thinks he'd like to be doing to him, all the things he'd like Harry to be doing to _him_ , all the things he'd so easily get to do if he got off his arse and went in and asked for it.

But, he doesn't. Because for the first time since they started, it just feels sort of... _ew_.  


	24. Chapter 24

For the next week, Louis opts out of Harry's 'cuddles'. He goes to Nancy's a lot, takes a few more hairdressing-jobs, walks the dogs so much that they begin to resent him for it and even ends up actually doing his homework most nights. He makes up excuses; he's tired, he's coming down with something, he just had a wank, _he's just not in the fucking mood_. Well, the last one is partly true. Sure, he still fattens up in his jeans just from seeing Harry bend down to pick something off the floor. Sure, he'd still like to fuck him into the next century.

But, then he sees Anne. Or his dad. Or the photo above Harry's bed. And he just kind of comes back to square one; _ew_... 

Of course, it's only a matter of time until he's made both Harry _and_ himself wait so long that lust starts to overpower disgust.

On a Thursday evening, Gemma is sleeping at the boyfriends' and dad and Anne, impossible as they are, decide to go out with friends - who knew old people still did that? Two years ago, Louis' dad didn't even _have_ friends and now he's out painting the town red like some sort of late life social butterfly.

Leaving Louis home alone with his stupid gorgeous horny step-brother. 

"Well," Louis says, after the lovebirds have just left and Louis and Harry are wavering awkwardly in the kitchen, "order in, then?" 

"Yeah, all right." 

Louis shifts weight, gaze flicking nervously around to avoid accidentally landing on Harry. "Well. I'll, eh, order, then." 

"You do that."

"Right." Louis turns and begins to flick through the five-hundred take-away flyers they have lying on the kitchen-counter. "So... ehm... we feeling Chinese or Italian or... I don't know, maybe KFC?" 

"Hmm," Harry drawls, and then, in one smooth movement, steps in so close that his chin hooks over Louis' shoulder, "good question..." he slips a hand under Louis' arm, picking at one of the fliers. 

Louis swallows and presses his hips closer to the edge of the counter, trying to create some space between his arse and Harry's crotch. It backfires, making Harry step in even closer than before. His free hand comes to rest at Louis' hip, thumb scratching in little circles where Louis' shirt has crept up. 

"So, ehm," Louis clears his throat, "we could also just... ehm..." Harry presses a kiss to the side of his jaw and it's all he can do not to jump at it, "- heat up those left-overs!" he blurts, "of your mum's spaghetti." 

"Knee's week, arm's are-" 

Louis slips out of his arms.

 

- 

 

They heat the spaghetti and Louis takes it up to his room, trying to send the message that he needs some alone-time. Harry follows, plops down beside him and turns his telly on without asking for permission. They eat without talking, slouched back in Louis' pillows, an old episode of EastEnders on the telly. Once they've eaten, Harry takes the plates down, and then comes upstairs again and lies right back down in Louis' bed. 

He links an arm around Louis' shoulders, which is - survivable. Then he dips in and begins to pepper kisses up the side of Louis' neck.  

"Right, uhm, let's-" Lous wriggles out of his arms and leaps off the bed, "let's just, uhm - I've got a lot of stuff to read up on and I was up really early with the dogs, so... I need to sleep." 

Harry stares at him for several seconds, like trying to figure out whether he's lying, honest or just completely insane. "Uhm..." he shakes his head at himself, snapping out of it, " - yeah. Yeah, 'course," he pushes off the bed, hesitates for a second, then nods at the floor and heads for the door, "goodnight, then." 

"Goodnight." 

Louis bites his lip over everything he wants to say to make Harry stay. He doesn't breathe until the door closes and he's alone. Then he goes to bed - without brushing his teeth or removing his hair-gel, because he just can't run the risk of bumping shoulders with Harry at the sink. Not tonight.

Of course, it isn't that easy. Why would it ever be? 

He lies awake for seconds, going on minutes, going on twenty whole minutes, listening to Harry bop around his bedroom. In the end, he's pretty sure all Harry's doing is pacing the floors without any actual purpose or reason.

When he finally calms down and Louis turns over, beginning to fall into something resembling a pre-sleep state, the door to his room is opened. It isn't violently or angrily, hell, it isn't even regularly. It's sneakily, like trying not to wake Louis. 

"Hey, uhm-" Harry still says as he pads across Louis' carpet, "would you mind, like... budging up?" 

Louis groans. "What's wrong with your own bed?" 

Instead of answering, Harry pushes a knee into Louis' back, trying to force him to move. He does, because what the hell else is he going to do? Nothing Louis does or says  _ever_ ends up being adhered to - unless it just so randomly happens to correlate with what Harry wants. 

"Lou-eh," Harry drawls, once he's settled into bed behind Louis, flat on his back, taking up all of the space and heating the mattress like his body was made for it. He cracks his knuckles, then drawls again; "Lou- _eeeeh_..." 

" _What_?!" Louis relents. 

"Did I do something to piss you off?"

The question hangs in the air for a moment. Naturally, Louis would just react with an automatic ' _no of course not_ ', but he hesitates, just for a second, because he feels terrible that Harry even had to ask that question. Harry hasn't done anything wrong, and if he had, he'd have had no chance what so ever to fix it because Louis hasn't told him what it is. And that really isn't fair. 

"No, listen, H," Louis blurts, when he realises he needs to say _something_ , "ehm, it's - look, it's not... Sorry, I've just been a bit... tired lately."

Christ.

"Yeah, no, I know, that's okay," Harry replies, but it sounds about as genuine as one of Louis' ' _no of course not_ 's. "That's okay, I - like, I... I get it if you... but like... yeah." 

Louis nods at the ceiling. They lie quiet for a bit. Louis doesn't know what to say or what to feel. That's a lie, he _does_ know what to feel. He feels shit. Absolute _shit_. For acting aloof for no apparent reason (to Harry anyway), for wanting to fuck the living shit out of his own step-brother all the fucking time and for lying right here next to him now, so hypersensitive he feels sick with it.

Guilt-ridden and gagging for it, Louis rolls onto his side, lays his arm over Harry's chest and shimmies up to fit their mouths together.

Harry gives a soft little noise at it, nipping at Louis' lips for more the second he pulls back. Louis forces himself to relax into it, slipping a leg in-between Harry's and lying down on him, halfway over his chest. They kiss softly for a while. Louis tries to take it easy, tries to remind himself that it was only ever meant as a little peck goodnight, but Harry wants more and, if he's honest with himself, Louis does too. He parts his teeth and lets Harry lick in, licks back and rakes his fingers through Harry's curls, scratches at his scalp and caresses the side of his sweet face. 

Harry takes Louis' hand off his face, drags it down to rest at his own chest and links their fingers together. Louis smiles into their kiss, heat curling in the pit of his stomach.

Harry plays around with his' hand and pulls on it so discretely that Louis doesn't realise what he's doing until his palm is cupping Harry's bulge. Of course. "Harry-" 

"Come on," Harry whispers, rubbing Louis' hand down on himself to get him started, "come _oon_ , Lou, it's been so long." 

It has, for a reason. "No, but, we've-" Louis groans at himself and how hard he's getting. Stupid body. Stupid sexy Harry. "No, the thing is, we've-" Harry tries to grind up into his hand and Louis realises he's still got it planted on his crotch so he quickly retracts it and clears his throat. "No, Haz, we've got to calm this down a bit." 

Harry frowns at him. "Why?" he whines, the big horny man-child. If he weren't so fucking gorgeous Louis might find him too much. Right now, he just finds it too difficult not to attack him as he lies there, so pleading and beautiful. "Come on, Lou, just a little touchy-touchy, pleaase," he keeps on, bringing out the dimples and the batting of the fucking lashes.

Louis shifts onto his back with a sigh, trying to collect his thoughts and get the blood-flow moving from his fattening dick and back up to his brain again. "No, but - but, it's just a bit - it's just getting a bit, like... ehm-" Like Louis doesn't know what he'll do with himself if they ever fully stop it. Like he isn't sure how he'll cope, when they inevitably _have_ to, and he has to keep seeing Harry, has to keep seeing him with other people and act like he's okay with it, maybe even pretend that he's happy for him. Like if they don't slow it down bit now, he doesn't think he'll ever survive any of that in the future. "Intense." 

"Oh," Harry says. He pauses for a second, then says it again; "Oh." Another pause. And then; "Oh. I don't... I'm sorry, I thought-" 

"You don't have to apologise," Louis cuts through. His chest hurts. "It's just - this was never meant to be a... a long-term kind of thing, was it?" It's rhetorical. It's meant to be rhetorical. He hopes it sounds rhetorical. 

Harry replies as if it wasn't; "no, of course not." 

"Right." Louis swallows, even though his throat is much too dry for it. "Right, so... so, it's more of a - a convenience thing, right? - Casual." 

"Yeah," Harry rasps. He coughs, clears his throat and then repeats himself; "yeah. Casual." 

Louis doesn't know what else to say. He feels terrible. In so many more ways than he really has the right to. 

"No, I - of course, I'm-" Harry tries, and it feels like he's just rambling for the sake of filling the silence, "I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I wanted something more or - like, you don't have to feel like you owe me anything. You don't owe me anything." 

Louis bites down on the insides of his cheeks and nods. No. They don't owe each other sex, they don't owe each other monogamy and they most definitely don't owe each other feelings. That's not what this is. That's not what this ever could be. 

"But... if, like," Harry goes on. He shifts onto his side and touches his fingers to the front of Louis' shirt, nervously fiddling with the fabric, "if you don't wanna... get off once in a while you can just tell me. If you're not into it anymore or something, that's cool. I know people lose attraction sometimes or... I don't know." 

Louis sighs exasperatedly, because that's just bloody ridiculous. Just look at him. "Haven't ' _lost attraction_ ', you big idiot," he says, reaching up to cup the side of Harry's beautiful face, "we just- I don't know. It just can't be-" 

"Anything more." Harry nods. "I know. It _isn't_. It isn't, I promise it isn't. I don't, you know - you can go and... like, fuck whoever you want. I don't... you don't owe me anything." 

Louis nods back at him, ignoring the way his heart seems to have dropped from his chest to the bottom of his stomach. The truth hurts, even when you think you've prepared yourself for it. That's just how it is.  That's not Harry's fault. "All right," he whispers, dragging his thumb along the sensitive skin under Harry's eye, "that's all right, then." 

Harry smiles, a nervous little quirk on the side of his mouth. "But, like, can we still-" 

Louis slides his hand down to cover Harry's mouth. "Yeah," he says. Maybe he's still got a bit of a chub on, and maybe that's clouding his judgement, but he can't really imagine ever saying no to that. "We can still." 

 

*

 

A couple of weeks later, Nancy drives Louis to a friend of a friend of a friend's house to do some tape-ins. The girl turns out to not actually be a 'girl', but rather a mother in her - from the looks of things, don't kill him if he's wrong - late forties. She has bleach-fried her hair so bad it looks like it might break from the slightest touch and it sounds like a violent bonfire between Louis' fingers. He glances at the silky smooth platinum-blonde extensions she somehow wants him to blend in with the yellow scouring pad-feeling hair on her own head. 

He manages, somehow. Maybe that's why he keeps getting new clients. _Maybe_ , he's actually good at this. 

"Babe, you've gotta put an add up on Facebook or make some kind of online-advertisement for yourself," Nancy tells him as she's driving him home that evening. It's about a forty-minute drive back to Holmes Chapel. Louis has clients  _forty minutes out of town_. That's got to count for something. "You could get yourself minted with those magic hands of yours," Nancy says, agreeing with his inner dialogue.  

Louis rolls his eyes, but still smiles at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. _Minted_. Doesn't sound too bad, really. "We'll have to look into that, then. You know anything about online advertising?" he asks. 

"Umh, du- _uh_." 

"Is that a yes or a...?" 

"It's a yes." 

"Really?" 

"Yes."

" _Really_?" 

"Hundred percent." 

"Wow, really?" 

"No, fuck off, I don't know shit about advertisement. What do I look like, fuckin' Don Draper or some shit?" 

He gives her a glance. "Maybe Betty." 

"Season five," she adds, before he can. 

"Yeah..." 

She laughs. He's missed her. 

 

*

 

They pop by the Nando's drive-in, then head to Nancy's and hang out in her room for the rest of the evening. It's pissing rain outside and Nancy's telly wont work and her internet connection is shit and her mum keeps popping her head into the room, fearing (or hoping, Louis isn't quite sure) that she might be having sex. It's cosy anyway. They try to look up some guides and tips on how to safely advertise an off-the-book service online, but they're both too stupid about it to even know what to look for. The only thing that seems relatively do-able is creating a public Facebook-page. Sadly, that won't work either, because Louis isn't trying to commit instant social suicide. 

Around ten pm, Nancy drives him home. 

"Well, anyway, my brother comes down from Manchester this weekend. He's good with IT and shit. Maybe he knows something, eh?" 

"Eh," Louis agrees, then bumps her fist and exits the car. 

In the kitchen, he finds his dad, emptying the dish-washer. Anne is on the kitchen-counter, looking through a magazine and talking to him about interior decor. He doesn't really seem to be listening to her, in any other way than the way you do when you just enjoy the sound of someone's voice, but couldn't care less about their interests. They're stupidly in love, those two. He can't wait for them to move into the 'dreadful boring old un-married-but-living-together couple with permanent bed-death'-phase. Be about time. 

On his way up to the second floor, he runs into Gemma and the boyfriend. They're on their way to a party. The boyfriend has a fringe longer than the back of his hair and acne-scarring on his cheeks. He seems so in love with Gemma that he can't walk right - or maybe he's just pigeon-toed. Louis studies him as they head on down the stares. Yeah, it's a bit of both. 

He continues up to his room.

The dogs are asleep, but that's a pretty big fucking miracle, because Harry is _blasting_  'Dreams' at a volume Fleetwood Mac should _never_ be blasted. 

"Turn it down!" Louis yells as he throws himself in bed. A minute passes. No change. "Harry!" Another minute. No change. Well, except for a rather contrasting song-switch to 'Do I Wanna Know?' by Arctic Monkeys, which is - well, more acceptable, but at this point Louis' just pissed for the sake of being pissed. "Harry, for _fuck's_ sake, turn it down!" 

Still no change. Really, Louis shouldn't be surprised; the music is so fucking loud that the idea that Harry could ever hear him over it is downright laughable, but... well, Louis' temper isn't. Never has been. 

He flies off the bed, across the floor and rips the door open, preparing to yell at the top of his lunges. 

But, the words get stuck in his throat. His stomach drops so quick he goes dizzy from it. 

The bedpost bumps against the wall, an ongoing, almost mechanical rhythm. The shelves above the bed rustle, the feathers of the mattress creak, the feet of the bed as well.

He's on top, his face hidden in the mattress beside her face and his body covered arse-down by the duvet, big sock-clad feet sticking out at the bottom of the bed. She's underneath him, delicate hands curled around his shoulder-blades, eyes closed and lips parted around her soft little moans. Her silky hair lays beautifully around her rosy-flushed face, falling down the side of the mattress.

He fucks her like he couldn't stop himself if he tried; fast, hard, almost angrily. He fucks her like a fucking rabbit, like he's _got_ to come and he's got to come  _now_ , noises so fucking filthy and loud, even with his mouth pushed into the mattress.

He fucks her like he does Louis, sometimes. 

Alex Turner keeps singing, the bass keeps on vibrating through the room and Louis keeps on standing there, frozen in the doorway, watching Harry fuck someone that isn't him. 

After a bit, he steps back, closes the door and then his eyes as well. So. That's what casual feels like, then. A bit like dying. 


	25. Chapter 25

The door to Harry's bedroom creaks open at 5.07 AM the following morning. The music stopped exactly six hours ago. The streaks of light coming through the outlines of Harry's bedroom door went black five hours and forty-eight minutes ago. The low voices and the little laughs died out about fifteen minutes after that.  

Louis has been staring at the ceiling for exactly six and a half hours.

"Shh," he hears Harry say, as they pad through Louis' room seven minutes past five in the morning, "don't wake him." 

Angie giggles, giddy with the secrecy of it all. Slut. "Oh my god, I'm gonna have to sneak in the backdoor so my dad won't notice I've slept out," she whispers. 

"Tsk, tsk," Harry tuts, "bad girl." 

She giggles again. There's vomit, travelling fast up through Louis' throat. He bites his lip not to puke in his mouth. 

"D'you reckon he heard us?" she whispers. "Last night?" 

"I don't think so, we had the music pretty loud." 

It's dark enough that Louis can look at them and make out their frames and still not have them notice that he's doing it. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe he's just making it worse on himself.

Right now, Angie is wavering in the door and Harry is shifting weight from foot to foot, consistently every single second. He wants her to leave. He wants her to leave so he can go back to the comfort of the bed that he fucked her in last night. He's such a fucking arsehole. And yet, the first thought that pops into Louis head at that is; ' _ha_. ha ha ha, he doesn't want to keep kissing you, once he's had you'. He hates himself.

"Well," Angie says, "this was fun." 

"Yeah," Harry drawls. Louis can't make out the lines of Harry's face, but he _knows_ he's doing his stupid sex-smirk. "Well... I'll see you at school, I guess." 

"Yeah. Looking forward." She giggles again. Then gets on her tip-toes, takes him by the jaw and fits their mouths together.

Louis closes his eyes for the first time since he got in bed six hours ago. 

 

*

 

He knows Harry doesn't have to meet till ten today. He knows because he doesn't either. He knows because they usually spend all morning naked in bed together on days like these. 

Today, he gets up as soon as Harry's gone back to bed. He showers, throws on his crinkled-up un-ironed uniform, grabs his backpack and leaves without a bite to eat. He marches down the street, the biting cold air scolding him for not taking a second to throw on a coat. He doesn't give a fuck. He stops at the corner-shop and buys himself a packet of cigarette's, even though he stopped smoking three months ago. He doesn't give a fuck. Maybe that shows, because it's the first time he's actually gotten away with buying cigarette's in this shop without being asked for his ID. 

He walks on. To where, he isn't sure. All he's sure of is that he can't really cope with the idea of standing still right now. He keeps his earphones in at all times, blasts music that won't let him hear his own thoughts and picks a new fag out of the packet before he's done with the former. 

By the time he finally stops walking, because his phone runs out of juice and he can't be alone with his own head, he's standing at the end of Nancy's garden path. Well, then. 

Her mum opens the door and is nice (or frightened by the look in his eyes) enough that she doesn't comment on the fact that he absolutely reeks of cigarette-smoke. "She's upstairs. I think she's still sleeping, but she should've been up by now anyway, so you go ahead," she tells him with a complimentary little laugh.

He doesn't so much as smile in response. He doesn't mean to be rude, but he just can't really manage, at the moment.

He heads up the stairs, down the hall, up to Nancy's door, forgets to knock and then, of _course_ , stops dead in the doorway. 

The. Fucking. Chance. 

Luckily, - or unluckily, he isn't quite sure -  there's no music on and Nancy notices Louis immediately. "Oh my god, oh my god, shit-" she begins to ramble, toppling off the bloke she was riding.

She pulls the entire duvet with her, sprints across the room and locks herself in the loo. 

Leaving Lurky Liam lying naked on her bed. 

Louis can't believe his own eyes. "What... the... actual-" 

"I'm, it's - I- Nancyyyyyyyy!" Lurky screams. His cock stands straight-up like a soldier, saluting Louis' in all it's purple-headed grace. "Nancy, come back!" Lurky screams again, like he's scared Louis will kill him just by staring.

"Cover yourself," Louis exclaims, once the initial shock has worn off, "mate, seriously, grab a pillow or something, _Jesus_." 

"I- I, yeah, I-" instead of doing what Louis _just_ said and going for one of the four fucking pillows right by his side, Liam falls halfway out of bed, giving Louis a good long look of where the sun never shines, and grabs a rag doll off the floor.

He puts the child-looking doll to his crotch and then begins to hyperventilate. 

Right then, Nancy comes flying out of the loo again, the duvet wrapped around her body. "You've got to go," she hisses, not to Louis, but to Lurky. She kicks him in the calf. "Come on, then, up. _Up_ , out of here, _chop chop_!" 

Liam scrambles to get out of bed and put on his pants without dropping the rag doll, which is pretty pointless considering both Nancy and Louis have _already_ seen all there is to see. He gets into his clothes as fast any a man can and then gets kicked out of the room even faster.

Nancy slams the door shut the second he's out. "That, ehm-" she croaks out, still fiddling with the door-handle several seconds later, "that was, ehm-" 

"Unexpected," Louis concludes. He sits down on her desk, arms as tightly crossed over his chest as they have been for the past minute. "So. So you're - you and Lurky- that's a thing, then?" 

Nancy whirls around, eyes the size of teacups. "No!" she exclaims, pointing a finger at him, "no. _No_." 

He can't help but laugh a bit. This is just- _wow_. "Right. Okay... so what, that was just a friendly game of naked rodeo or?" 

"No. No, that was-" she begins to pace the floors, "that was-" she stops dead in the middle of the room, shakes her head at herself and then spins around again, eyes almost larger than the last time, "that was something you have to promise me never to tell anyone about. _Ever_."

Louis bites his lip not to laugh again. "Right," he manages, "my lips are sealed." 

She nods and then proceeds to pace the floors for another couple of minutes. In the end, she calms herself down enough to take a seat on her bed, clear her throat and ask; "so. Why are you here at this time?" 

Louis' smile dissolves. For moment there, he'd forgotten he was dead inside. "I'm just... I don't know, I-" 

She crinkles her nose up. "Mate, you stink of smoke."

Right. He wipes at his mouth in some ridiculous subconscious attempt to get the smell off. "Yeah, I... fell a bit off the wagon this morning..."

He must look an absolute suicidal mess, because her expression goes uncharacteristically soft suddenly. "You all right, babe?" she asks, her voice so full of concern that he _does_ sort of feel like killing himself, just for a second. 

"Yeah, 'course I'm all right," he lies, just out of habit, "I just, ehm - I just couldn't really handle being at home right now. With... the lot."

"The lot? Your family or?" 

He shrugs a shoulder. Drops his gaze to her once-white carpet. Shrugs again. "I don't know, really."

"Harry?"

And oh, he's so pathetic. He so pathetic that the mention of a common fucking name makes him feel like he's just been punched in the chest. "I don't know," he repeats. 

She doesn't ask anything more. He counts the stains in her carpet while she gets up and gets dressed.

Then she walks across the floor, closes her arms around him and pulls him in. "Don't even think about pushing me off," she mutters into his neck. 

He doesn't and he wouldn't have, even if she hadn't said it. It's been a while since he's been hugged like this, by someone where it doesn't have anything remotely to do with sex. It's nice. In a lukewarm sort of way. 

 

-

 

Nancy decides that they're bonking off school today. She lends him a pair of her trackies - that fit depressingly well due to her being a bit too big for a girl and him being a bit too small for a boy. They hate-watch My Big Fat Fabulous Life and start to feel a bit better about themselves. 

Then Louis gets a text.

**hairystiles - why arent u at school**

His stomach twists horribly. It's not like he wants to feel like this. It's not like he doesn't wish he'd just feel a bit... _less_ , in general. But, he can't help it. He can't help it that one look at Harry's contact name immediately makes those images pop back into his head. Makes him see it all before his minds eye, clear as it was last night. Makes him feel exactly as sick as he did when he stood there, watching him fuck her. 

He manages not to reply to Harry's text, nor the following one, which consist solely of a question mark. 

He goes to the loo, even though he doesn't really have to piss. He has one anyway, and then splashes cold water in his face and tells his reflection to stop being such a little bitch. 

When he comes back out, Nancy is holding his phone in her hand. Looking at it.

"Are you going through my phone?" Louis exclaims, more horrified than anything, really.

" _No_!" she drops the phone right out of her fingers, as if that makes a difference now, "no, I was just - I - sorry, I didn't mean to..." 

But his heart is already hammering his rib-cage, gone from zero to sixty in a second. He flies across the floor and picks up the phone to see what she's seen.

**hairystiles - i got free period soon so if ur bonking off at home i can come in about half an hour if u wanna have a quick cuddle**

Louis stares at the screen for so long that it starts to go blurry.

 _Fuck_ , how he just does _not_ need this today. First Lurky Liam's dick in his face and now having to come up with an elaborate lie on his feet if he doesn't want his best friend to think he's fucking his own step-brother. He hasn't even slept all night, he can't hardly form a proper fucking sentence to save his life. "Wow, this is, eh..." he begins, raspily, "this is funny." 

She doesn't say anything. 

His face feels like it's gone crimson. "This is just a - this is like a - a running joke we've got going. This isn't..." 

She still doesn't speak. 

Louis' throat is closing up. Laughing in his face and mocking him for his terrible _terrible_ lying might actually be better than this complete strangling silence. 

"Ehm, I- this isn't-" 

"Louis, what the _fuck_ ," Nancy cuts through, and her voice is so unexpectedly harsh that Louis' head snaps up. Her eyes are fiery, her brows arched and furrowed. She's angry. "How thick do you think I am? Don't stand there lying to my face like I'm some sort of drooling idiot. _Fuck's_ sake, I thought we were closer than that." 

His mouth drops open. Nothing comes out. 

Nancy sighs exasperatedly and pushes off the mattress to sit up straight. "What, so you and Haz are having a little thing, then? Is that it? Is that what's going on? For _fuck's_ sake, don't look like such a slapped arse, just tell me the truth, mate. Can't be that fuckin' hard, can it? Not like yous are _actually_ related or anything." 

Well. She's right about that, but- "I'm not sure what to-" 

"Just answer me yes or no, then," she exclaims, "are you shaggin' Gemma's baby brother or are you not shaggin' Gemma's baby brother?"

"I'm - I am, I-" he goes from shaking his head like a wet dog to nodding like a petrified primary schooler, "I am. We are- we've been - a little bit, yeah. A little bit." 

She gives a long sigh, rolling her eyes. "Right, then. Wasn't that fuckin' hard, was it..." 

"No, but I... I don't know..." 

"Well, don't stand there biting your lip to pieces. Come and sit with me. How long has this been going on?" 

Louis takes a deep breath to steady his nerves before answering; "since... 'round August or September last year, I think." 

"Over _six_ _months_?!" she screams, "- shit, sorry, I didn't mean to shout like that. Just, come on, sit down, babe, why d'you look so scared of me? What am I gonna do, tell on you? Do you really think I'd do that?" 

No. He doesn't think she'd ever do that. But- "you're the first person I've told. About it. Apart from Harry -  and Niall's girlfriend by accident - you're the only person that I'm certain knows." 

"Well, Liam knows too." 

" _Wha_ '?!" 

She sighs again, throwing a hand out. "I mean, he - he told me he saw you and Haz snogging through your bedroom window one night, so..." 

"Hang on - you _knew_?! Before that text? You _already_ knew?!" 

"Chill out. _Please_ ," she exclaims, "only for about a week or so. Think he's shit-scared of Harry so he didn't dare tell me till then." 

Right. Right, fuck- Louis feels like he might faint if he doesn't take a seat right around now. He pulls Nancy's office chair out to sit across from her because he can't really handle sitting next to her right now.

"Uhm... so what do you- I mean, d'you - d'you think it's really weird?" he asks, pulling his knees up to his chin and locking his arms around his legs. 

"Yeah," she answers simply. 

Right.

"Don't look like that, babe, it's not weird in any horrible way. I'd say me fucking Lurky ranks above it, without question. It's just weird to me _personally_ because - you know, I've literally known Harry all his life and he's been an absolute skirt-chaser since he was old enough to crawl." 

Right. "Okay..." 

"But, no, it's not- it's not  _unheard_ of," Nancy begins to ramble, "that, ehm... that you're having a thing with your step-brother. I mean, you guys aren't related and it's not like you grew up together. You literally met when you were already teenagers. If one of you were a girl I'm sure it would be even less out of the ordinary." 

"Well, obviously." 

She gives a little laugh. "Yeah okay, but - no, what I meant to say is... It's only weird because yous are still living at home. And, like - well, I don't really know your dad all that well, but I know Anne and she's - you know, she's a bit... a bit of a perfectionist, I suppose."

Louis snorts. "That's one way of putting it."

"No, she's sweet, really. She just - she stresses herself with things. She didn't always have it easy - when Gemma was little she used to come to my place all the time 'cause things weren't good at home. Maybe I'm completely off, but I reckon with Harry, Anne felt it was sort of a second chance to be the perfect mum - you know, because he can't remember the bad times. And now that she's got a father-figure type in the house to complete it all, she wants everything to be happy families, you know. I don't know, maybe I'm talking shit, but..."

"You're not," Louis says quickly, "you're not talking shit. You're-" saying all the right things in exactly the right way, all the time, "I love you. I really love you, Nance."

Her face breaks into a huge grin. "Wow," she chuckles, "that calls for a hug. C'mere." She stretches her arms out for him, "c'mere, babes. You know I love you too. Give us a cuddle."

He groans, just for show, and then leaps into her arms. They fall into a half-way hug on the bed, and then lie there for a long while, her fingers scratching lazily at his scalp.

She asks about him and Harry for a bit, but soon accepts his complete refusal to give any information at all. So, she decides to tell him about her and Lurky Liam. How she drove him home new years eve and they ended up sleeping together on the backseat of her car - _actually_ sleeping - because he'd locked himself out of his house and his mum was out of town. How she took his virginity in that same backseat the following morning. How he showed up unannounced at her doorstep the next day, with a bouquet of red roses and a morning-after pill. How they ended up shagging again. Six times that day. 

"And from then on, it just sort of... you know... went on," she says in conclusion. "Do you find me disgusting now?" 

He laughs. "Not if you don't find me disgusting for shagging Harry." 

"Well, Harry's a proper catch. Can't really say the same for Lurky, can ya?" 

"Oh, I don't know, I got a pretty good look at him just before." 

She gives him a sideways grin, "aand?" 

He shrugs a shoulder. "I mean, I can see why you'd keep coming back." 

"Am I riiight?" she agrees, making eyes, "it's always the quiet ones, innit." 

They laugh until it isn't funny anymore, then turn to watch the telly that's still on in the background.

But there's a question left on the tip of Louis' tongue, begging to be asked. In the end, he can't help himself; "but if- say, Liam met another girl and went with her. For a night." 

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind? I mean, you might say it's all right, but - but really. If you think about it. Would you be all right with it? The idea that he's been doing all the things he did with you with someone else too? Or would it feel shitty? Would you feel shitty, knowing he fucks someone else, just like he does you?" 

She takes her gaze off the telly to look at him. Studies his face for a moment. Then she says, finally; "if Harry feels the need to shag other people when he's with you, then he's really too blind and stupid to waste your time on, babe."


	26. Chapter 26

He sleeps at Nancy's that night. The following day, he gets a text from his lab-partner, begging him not to skip out on their presentation. Nancy's mum, the angel that she is, irons his uniform for him and drives him to school. He doesn't have any classes with Harry and he skillfully avoids the cafeteria during breaks, hanging out in the smoker's shed with Joseph and Ali instead. They tell him off for falling off the smoker's wagon, but they don't seem too upset about the extra company; the majority of the blokes who hang in the smoker's shed are either too stoned to hold a decent conversation or too 'cool' to try. 

After school, Louis wanders aimlessly around town for a couple of hours. It feels sort of stupid, but he supposes the general idea is that the later he gets home, the less time he'll have alone in the house with Harry. Sure, Gemma could be home, but he wouldn't bank on it because she seems to have more or less moved in with the boyfriend at this point.

So, if Louis stays out of the house until he's sure Anne or his dad are home from work, he'll at least have someone else to use as a conversation-shield, lest Harry should try to talk to him.  

At 6 PM, Louis gives in and goes home. It isn't raining yet, but the charcoal clouds in the horizon tell him it wont stay that way for long. 

The first thing he sees as he steps inside the house, is Harry. Of course. 

He's coming through from the kitchen, balancing three bowls of crisps in two hands. He's wearing the red cotton tracksuit Louis got him for his birthday and a pair of Louis' white sports socks; he can tell, because they're too small and there's a hole at the left big toe. He looks so soft and snuggly that Louis just wants to drop everything and bury his face in his broad chest. 

But, something stops him. Maybe the nauseating pit in his stomach that's been there since he saw Harry with her. "Hey," he mutters, passing Harry to take off his shoes in the corner of the room and not have to face him.

"Hey," Harry says, and there's something hesitant about it, like he already knows something's wrong. Whether he could see it on Louis' face the second he walked in or he just knows, in general, Louis isn't sure. 

A moment passes. Louis doesn't think he's ever concentrated this hard on taking off his shoes, eyes stitched to the dirty-white laces, feet working purposely slow to kill time. Harry wont leave. He wont move. He just stands there, behind Louis, still like a statue, but so alive Louis can physically feel his gaze boring into the back of his head. 

"Uhm," Harry mutters, after what feels like years of silence, "some of the lads are upstairs. They're, uhm, in your room, but- I can tell'em to leave. Or go into my room or-" 

"No. No no, it's-" a relief, really. Anything's better than this, all one with Harry, too self-aware for silence, too hurt for banter, too scared for talking. "It's fine." 

Louis turns, pushing his fringe into place by the back of his wrist and nodding at the floor. 

"Okay," Harry says, voice calm and soft and nervous at the same time. He's looking at Louis, right at his face, would be looking him in the eye if Louis weren't staring at his feet. 

"Okay." Louis bites his lip. This is too bad. This is _so_  terrible. "Well, what are we standing here for, we should go up and-" 

"I bought scones." Louis' head snaps up, because for a second, he's too concerned with not understanding what Harry said to remember that the last thing he wants right now is to look him in the eye. When he does, it's too late. Harry smiles at him, sweet and open and... sorry. "I bought scones," he says, "they're upstairs, in my bag. I bought some for you, I- didn't know whether you'd come home or you'd go to a friends or- but, I - I haven't eaten any. I haven't touched them." A slither of something impish comes over his expression. "Scout's honor," he adds, the side of that big red mouth quirking upwards. 

Louis looks away again. "Well, I'm not really hungry, so..." 

"Oh. Okay," Harry mutters.

He stumbles back awkwardly to let Louis walk up the stairs first, then mutters something about the weather as they walk toward Louis' room. Louis has never felt more relieved to step into his room and find all those stinky lads slouched around his carpet. 

 

-

 

They hang around for a while, watching telly and dipping in and out of conversation. Louis lies on the bed, flicking aimlessly around on his phone. Niall and Joseph's are at his side, taking up enough space that Harry couldn't cram himself in there if he tried. He hasn't tired, as of yet. Right now, he's in the opposite end of the room, putting together some gigantic puzzle with the useless help of Ali and Leo. 

Someone pokes Louis in the arm. It's Joseph. "What d'you reckon, Lou?" 

"'bout wha'?" 

Joseph nods over at the puzzle-boys. "Who'd win in a fight? Leo or Al?" 

Louis lets his gaze roll from Joseph over to Ali, who's got a slice of pizza on his chest, just lying there, and then on to Leo, who seems to be trying to eat a puzzle-piece. 

"Leo," Louis decides, because Ali has arms like twigs and painful pimples to pop all over, "worst comes to worst, he can just sit on him." 

"What, because he's fat?"

"No, because he's big-boned." 

Joseph laughs. 

"Who's fat?!" Leo yells from across the room, making both Ali and Harry look up too. Christ. 

"You, mate," Joseph replies simply. 

"Fuck you, who cares if I'm fat?" 

"No one besides you, you're the one yelling about it." 

"Well, at least I'm not a bird. D'you know what I thought about the other day?"

Joseph sighs. " _What_ , Leo?"

"Fat blokes can get rich or famous or really fuckin' funny, right? But fat birds, they're just screwed, cause men don't care about status or humour if you look like a beached whale." 

Joseph groans. "That's all well and good, mate, but you ain't rich and you ain't gonna be famous and, despite what your mum tells you, you're not fuckin' funny." 

"Oh piss off." Leo picks a handful of puzzle-pieces up and throws them at Joseph, making Harry whine loudly. "Besides," Leo says, ignoring him completely, "my mum doesn't think I'm funny. In fact, she told me I was the least funny person she's ever met in her life, so jokes on you. Ha..." He buries his face in his hands. 

Joseph laughs. "Jesus Christ," he says, shaking his head. 

"No, but seriously, Jo, I'm not even wrong about this," Leo yells. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake, I thought you were done."

"No, I mean it. Like... uhm. King of Queens. Ever seen it? Fat, but funny as fuck. Hot wife. And... Hugh Hefner. Old, but rich as fuck. Constantly surrounded by hot girls." 

"Okay..." 

"Meghan Trainor. Fat, but rich as fuck. Still can't get a proper man. Lena Dunham. Fat, but rich as fuck. Still gets treated like dog-crap, I'm sure. Ehm... Nancy. That bird who hangs around Gemma sometimes. Proper funny if you chat to her, but - you still wouldn't touch her with a ten foot pole. You know what I mean?" 

Louis' face goes hot. Not in the way that it does when he's embarrassed or shy or ashamed. Not in the way that it does when his cheeks flush or his chest goes blotchy red all over. No. His face goes hot in the way that it does when he's pissed. When he's _really fucking fuming_.

Enough now.

"Oi!" he yells, snapping his fingers, "Leo. Listen. You do not talk about her like that." 

Leo's brows crease together a little. "The fuck, mate?" he chuckles. 

"I'm serious," Louis says, voice hard and steady at the same time, even as he feels a bit like slamming his fist into Leo's fat face, "I get that you're trying to justify yourself because you hate the fact that you can't get girls 'cause you're too lazy to put down the pizza and go for a walk once in a while, but don't project that shit onto Nancy. Or any other girls. Don't think that _anyone_ in room this doesn't know that you'd shag her in an instant if she wanted you. So _please_ , shut the fuck up with your shit. It's pathetic." 

Leo's eyes look like they're about to pop out of his skull. His gaze flicks around, looking for back-up from one of the other lads. No one says anything, all too caught up in either staring at Louis or the floor. "I- wow," Leo mutters, "wow, calm down, mate, I was just joking around." 

"No," Louis replies, because that's the biggest fucking bull-shit excuse he's heard all day. His neck feels on fire. "You weren't fucking joking, you meant it, so own it and apologise. And have some goddamn respect. She's my friend, she's Gemma's friend, she's a friend of this family, and Harry has _already_ said it before and yet you _still_ keep on with it. It's really fucking transparent and pathetic, mate. Stop it or get the fuck out of here." 

"I-" 

"I mean it," Louis says, raising his brows at him, "I don't give a fuck if you think I'm overreacting. You think she doesn't know that she's fat? You think she wouldn't choose to be thin if it were easy for her? You think she doesn't worry about the size or her gut _exactly_ as much as I'm damn well sure you do too?" Louis stops, just to catch his breath. "No. You don't think that. You're not fucking stupid. So stop talking shit or get out of my room. Seriously. She's my friend." 

The room goes a bit quiet after that.

 

-

 

Not long after, the lads begin to excuse themselves. On his way out, Leo stops and mutters 'I'm sorry' and 'we still good?' and Louis tells him 'good' and 'yeah of course'. They shake hands on it and then that's that. For a moment, Louis feels proud of himself. Strong. 

Then he realises he's left alone with Harry. 

"I'm just gonna, ehm, do some homework," Louis mutters, a polite way of telling Harry to get out.

He pulls his laptop out of his bag and Google's Google in the Google search-bar. Harry still doesn't leave.

Louis glances over at him. He's sitting in the corner of the room in front of his half-done puzzle still, but he isn't looking at it. He's looking at Louis. Bum on the carpet, back to the wall, chin on his knees and arms around his legs, he's just sitting there, watching Louis. Chewing on his lip. 

"What?" Louis asks, even though he isn't sure he wants to know the answer.

Harry shakes his head, more at himself than Louis. "Nothing," he says, "nothing, I - no, nothing."

"Okay." Louis turns back to his laptop.

He opens a blank word-sheet and begins to write random nonsensical notes on it, as if his heart-beat isn't fastening with every step he can hear Harry taking toward him. In the end, Harry is close enough to see out of the crook of his eye. He doesn't say anything, doesn't ask anything, doesn't do anything else than reach forward, close Louis' laptop and take it out of his lap. He puts it on the nightstand and then stops, knees to the side of Louis bed. 

"What?" Louis asks again, forcing himself to look up at him. 

Harry is chewing on his lip again, watching him so nervously that Louis almost catches himself feeling bad for him.

He lifts a hand to the side of Louis' face and cups it. "Please," he says, so lowly Louis has to concentrate hard to hear him, "tell me. Tell me if you're bothered about something." 

"I'm not," Louis replies mechanically, "I'm not bothered." 

Harry doesn't look like he believes it, not even for a second. "Okay," he still says, "but, like - fuck, just - tell me, _please_. Seriously. Tell me if you _are_ bothered about.. something, anything. Please, just- talk to me, Lou." 

Louis nods, because that's all he can manage, what with Harry's hand still on the side of his face and Harry's gaze still on him, boring right through him. "C'mere," he hears himself say, after a bit, "just- can you please... c'mere." 

Maybe he can't stand the look in Harry's eye. Maybe he can't stand Harry standing there, hovering above him, making him feel so small. Maybe he's just weak, like he always is. 

Harry goes easily, slipping into bed beside Louis and wrapping his arms around him. Louis buries his face in his warm chest and the softness of his sweatshirt. Harry presses kisses all over his face, down the side of his neck and along his collarbone. Louis tries not to let it affect him too much; the feel of Harry's lips on his skin.

Of course, he doesn't manage. He never does. 

Closing his eyes, he nudges his nose at Harry's face, looking for his mouth. He finds it and presses his lips to it, again and again and again. Harry groans into it and kisses him back, rolls on top of him and pushes himself in between his legs. Louis wraps his limbs around him, locks him down so hard he couldn't leave if he wanted to. He doesn't want to. He moves down Louis' jaw, nibbles at his earlobe and bites at the shell of his ear. 

Louis bites him in the shoulder, then lightly in the neck and the ear too. He shoves his fingers into Harry's hair and fists it so hard he winces. "I hate you," he says, the sound of his voice drowning in the fabric of Harry's sweatshirt. 

"Love you," Harry replies, right into his ear before he kisses him again. If only that were enough to make it all better. 


	27. Chapter 27

Louis rolls over for the hundredth time since he woke at 3.13 AM and couldn’t fall back to sleep. He pulls the duvet up over his face, screws his eyes shut and pushes his face into the pillows as he waits for Angie to come through from Harry’s room.

Angie comes over once or - if she’s feeling particularly frisky - twice a week these days. It’s the same routine every time. She shows up around an hour after dinner-time. Then her and Harry either a) walk the dogs together, b) make snacks downstairs and take them up to his room or c) hang around in Louis’ bed and use his Xbox. Well, that last one only happened once, when Louis wasn’t home - and then he _did_ come home and found them like that. Needless to say, Harry was quick to hush her into his own room.

Despite the differing pre-sex activities, Harry and Angie’s hangouts always lead up to one thing and one thing only; the blasting music.

It’s a nice gesture, Louis supposes; that Harry bothers to drown out the moans for the rest of the family’s sake. Sadly, it doesn’t make much of a difference to Louis. No matter how loud the music is, the rhythm of Harry’s headboard knocking against the wall still vibrates through to Louis’ room, making his bed rustle, just a little. Letting him know what they’re doing, all too well.

After around five to ten minutes, Harry usually finishes jack-rabbiting her, and the music stops. A few minutes after that, she hops in the shower; Louis can tell that it’s her because she always sings the same song as she washes Harry’s sweat and come off of her; Creep by Radiohead. It used to be Louis’ favorite shower-song too. Now he feels sick just hearing the melody.

If Angie comes on a weekday, which she usually does, she’ll sleep over and hurry out somewhere between 4.30 and 6 AM. If she comes on a Friday or Saturday, Harry brings her breakfast in bed - she probably thinks it’s because he’s spoiling her. In reality, it’s because he doesn’t want her to chat to his mum. After breakfast in bed, he’ll make up an excuse; he has to go to the gym (he never goes to the gym), he has a major assignment due (Harry never spends more than an hour on homework, because he knows he’ll do well regardless), he promised his mum he’d run errands for her (Anne never asks anyone to do anything for her; it goes against her perfect-mum principles).

Once Angie leaves, be it on a weekday or a weekend, no more than five minutes will pass before Harry comes padding into Louis’ room. Louis will pretend to be asleep, because if he didn’t and he had to look Harry in the eye, he wouldn’t be able to hide how utterly empty inside he’s been feeling lately. So he keeps his eyes closed. And he lets Harry crawl into bed with him, smelling like perfume and pussy and the spray deodorant he only uses when he’s trying to cover the two first smells.

Maybe Louis shouldn’t let him into his bed on mornings like that. Maybe it’s such a terribly spineless thing to do. Maybe he takes some sick pleasure in doing it anyway.

She may be someone that Harry could easily introduce to friends and family as his girlfriend, no questions, no odd looks. She may be someone that Harry could marry one day and have kids that look like himself with. She may have cunt, which he can fuck whenever the fuck he feels like it, no fingers, no lube.

But, she’ll never be this. She’ll never be the one Harry crawls into bed with after, and keeps kissing and kissing and kissing all through the day, because he never gets sick of it with Louis, not even after he's had him.

 

Today, which is a Sunday, Angie leaves Harry’s room at 11 PM. Usually, they'll say their goodbyes in the bedroom and Harry wont walk her out. Today, he's decided to be a bit of a gentleman - well, to her, anyway -  and walk her through Louis’ room.

She stops in the door, like she did the first time this ever happened. Louis can’t watch them like he did then, because it’s too light in the room and he’d be caught in it, so he goes from what he can hear. She definitely stopped. He’s definitely still moving, just a little, in his spot, impatient for her to start walking again.

She doesn’t, just yet. “Uhm, Harry, I…” she begins, and she sounds like she’s fiddling with her fingers. She must look ever so fucking adorable. “There’s something I haven’t really- I’ve wanted to sort of… god, this is bad timing, innit? Why couldn’t I have just said it before, I don’t know, I’m so stupid…”

“You’re not stupid.”

“Aaw,” she giggles, as if that’s a major outstanding compliment. Which it _is_ , Louis supposes, when coming from a boy who hardly ever gives you anything to work with, apart from his dick for five minutes in the late PM’s. “Well, the thing is is - I… all right, this is gonna sound proper stalkerish, but, like - I just wanted you to know that… I really hope this isn’t just a casual thing. For you. I mean, I know it is right now, but- I hope you are starting to fancy me a bit, because, uhm well, because, I’m starting to fancy you. Properly.”

He gives a choked sounding chuckle. “Oh,” he says, “well, yeah, I’ve been having loads of fun too.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s been soo fun,” she agrees, “soo fun… but, like, also - also, like… I think- all right, I’ll just put it like this ‘cause I’m makin’ myself nervous; I haven’t been seeing anyone else. While you and I have been seeing each other. At all.” There’s an awkward silence on it's way. She kills it before it becomes too obvious; “- and that’s not to say that I’d be upset if you have, cause I know we haven’t talked about it or anything. But… but, like… have you?”

He coughs. “Have I what?” he asks, as if he hasn’t been following the conversation at all.

“Been seeing other people? While you and I have… you know?”

“Uhm,” he croaks out, and that’s really enough of an answer right there. “I mean, I’ve, uhm, sometimes, I dunno. I mean, there’s- there _is_ someone.”

“There is?” she says, her voice suddenly half-gone. Louis’ would be too, if he’s honest. His heart just flew up his throat.

“Yeah, ehm… Well, I mean, I don’t - you’re definitely more, like… the other thing, it couldn’t really be anything like… more. You’re definitely more of, like- girlfriend material, I guess.”

Right.

“I see,” she says, on a massive sigh of relief,  “well, all right. But- yeah, all right, Haz. But, now you know, I’m not seeing anyone else. So. Maybe you can have a think about... what you want - in regards to me?”

“Yeah, no, I -” it sounds like he’s scratching at his nose or the side of his mouth, “yeah, yeah, I will. I will.”

She chuckles softly. “You’re so cute when you ramble,” she says, and then there’s a sound of lips smacking.

After that, she finally leaves.

Harry walks halfway across the room and then stops.

The room falls silent. So unbearably silent that Louis subconsciously begins to hold his breath.

In the end, it’s been silent for so long that Louis allows himself to peek one eye open. Harry is leaned over his desk, hands curled around the edge of it, back hunched and head dropped. His fingers tap restlessly up the underside of the desk, his breathing an on-going string of exasperated sighs.

Louis isn’t sure what to make of it. He also never will be, because he doesn’t ask.

 

*

 

Things continue like this for a while. Somehow, Louis survives it. Maybe because Harry doesn’t seem to ever initiate hang-outs with Angie himself. Maybe because Harry never mentions Angie unless someone else brings her up. Maybe because if Louis didn’t tell himself day in and day out that he was okay with it, he’d deteriorate completely.

The worst part, though, isn’t when Harry has her over. It’s when, once in awhile, Angie has _him_ over. When Louis can’t account for what they’re doing and when they’ll be done. When his imagination starts to get the better of him.

“Where’s your head at, gorgeous?” asks Anne, dusting her way into the living-room one evening.  Louis is lying on the sofa, staring into thin air.

He’d be in his own room, but he was actually hoping for Gemma or his dad or even Anne to come in. Distract him from himself. From the fact that Angie called Harry over to help her put together an IKEA-dresser six hours ago and he still isn’t back. He should really call up a friend and go get a life, but part of him - that pathetic bitter little boy inside him - wants to stay just to know the exact amount of time Harry spent with her.

“Nowhere,” he tells Anne, letting his face plop from his hand down onto the couch.

Anne whirls her little pink duster all around the couch he’s lying on, then stops for a moment and looks at him over. “God,” she sighs, tilting her head sideways a little, “you really are beautiful.”

Louis snort-laughs and pushes off the couch to sit up straight. “Thanks, Anne.”

“How you don’t have a boyfriend is beyond me,” she says, resuming her dusting, “such a pretty little thing like you. I’m sure you have no trouble getting men.”

“Well, men aren’t exactly flocking to date a ‘ _pretty little thing_ ’,” Louis argues with a grin, “when what they’re attracted to is _men_ , that is.”

She doesn’t answer that, and Louis is pretty sure it’s because she didn’t understand what he said and she doesn’t have any desire to either. Instead, she finishes dusting the last corner in the room, and then turns and smiles at him again. “Is it true that you do hair, Louis?”

His face falls. “Wha’?”

“Hair. Colour and cutting and wigs and whatnot.”

“Oh, I- well, I do a bit of cutting, but I haven’t been asked to dye anyone’s hair yet. And it’s mainly extensions, not wigs. But, ehm… to answer your question; yes. I do do hair.”

She giggles. “‘ _Do do_ ’.”

He strains not to roll his eyes. _Like son like mother_ \- or whatever that saying is. “Why, uhm - how do you know? About the hair-thing?”

“Oh, well, Gemma told me,” her smile widens with enthusiasm, “you know, I have a friend who works in a salon - a proper upmarket one. Her husband owns the chain, they have about three spread around London and they-”

The front door slams shut. Louis jumps, just a little, just because his body is stupid, thinking it might be Harry.

“Gemma, darling, is that you?” Anne calls out.

“No, it’s just me, mum,” Harry yells back, before trampling his big feet up the stairs.

Anne turns to Louis again, shaking her head. “That boy,” she sighs, “- _and_ his sister. They’re always off with some new fling, aren’t they?” She reaches forward, without any warning, and pinches Louis' cheek. “You just stay a good boy and keep those legs together. Serve you better in the end.”

Right.

 

-

 

He runs up to his room the second Anne lets him off. Harry isn’t in there, but Louis can hear his music streaming through his headphones, even through the wall.

He comes up with an excuse and walks into Harry's bedroom.

“Oh, hey,” Harry says, pushing his head-phones down. He’s listening to fucking Fleetwood Mac again. If that band wasn’t shit already, it’s completely ruined for Louis now. Who fucks to _Fleetwood Mac_? Seriously. “What’s up?”

“Did you take my charger?”

“No.”

“Oh well, then it must be in my room somewhere,” Louis mutters, and then closes the door behind him and walks in.

Harry grins, taking the headphones off and scooting closer to the wall. There’s a post-sex flush on his face and pit stains on his t-shirt. Fucks to Fleetwood Mac _and_ neglects to take his clothes off during sex. What more could you want in a man?

“You look really hot today.” Well, that, maybe.

“Oh, get out of here,” Louis says and slips into bed with him.

He smells like he always does after he’s had her. There’s a faint little hickey forming just above his collarbone and a bite-mark on his left bicep.

Louis tries to turn around in his arms, tries to have him without having to look at him, but Harry holds him in place and fits their mouths together instead.

He kisses like he always does when he’s had her; like he’s apologising for something. He shouldn’t be, he’s got nothing _to_ apologise for, but maybe Louis feels extra spiteful today, because when they pull back for air, he can’t help but announce; “you taste like pussy.”

Harry's drops his gaze. “Haven’t eaten pussy,” he mutters, but moves his lips away from Louis’ nonetheless.

He locks his arms around Louis, pulls him closer and begins to lick and bite his way down his neck. Louis grinds into him, slips his hand up the back of his t-shirt and feels at the strong muscles of his back. At the top of it, there are scratch-marks. They aren’t bad; they aren’t worse than anything Louis’ done a couple times. But they’re there, nonetheless. Made by sharp acrylic nails.

Louis sets his teeth into the flesh of Harry’s arm.

Harry's only reaction to fist his hand up in the back of Louis' shirt and press his nose into his neck. 

And yet, after a while, after they've lied there cheek-to-cheek for what feels like ages, Harry pulls back, looks Louis in the eye and says; "I did eat pussy, actually. I lied, just before." 

"What the fuck-" 

"I did eat pussy," Harry repeats, something firm, almost determined, coming over his face. Louis lies stiff in his arms, unsure of what to say to that. So, he doesn't say anything. "I _did_ eat pussy," Harry says for the third time, "and I _did_ fuck her. Today. And I did fuck her, many other times. I did. Sometimes, I fuck her missionary. Sometimes, I fuck her from behind. Sometimes, I push her up against the wall and stick my fingers up her-" 

" _Harry_!" Louis exclaims, because it's already enough to make him want to shoot his bloody brains out as it is.

Harry stops. His gaze rolls down Louis' face, studying him. "Why can't I talk about it?" he asks, calmly. 

"What do you mean?" Louis pushes off on his chest to get a bit of space, "it's disgusting, I don't wanna know about what you-" 

"And why is that?" Harry cuts through, breathing hard into Louis' face, "why is it that you don't want to hear about it? Why is it that it gets you like this? Gets you so upset? Is it because you-" 

And _no_. No. Louis can't let him have that. "Shut the fuck up," he hisses, "I don't give a fuck about who you fuck, I've told you a million times. You can fuck her every night and I still won't give a fuck. Just... you know. Brush your teeth or chew some gum if you've _just_ had your tongue on her cunt." 

Harry laughs, just at the crudeness of it, but Louis doesn't miss the way it never really reaches his eyes.


	28. Chapter 28

It’s the first day of the year that Louis deems it warm enough to take Cleo to the woods. Normally, he’ll go around the block a few times until she’s had a poop and a minimal amount of exercise, but now that there’s actually a bit of sun coming through those big thick clouds in the sky, he’ll let her have her fun. There’s a tiny patch of forest a half mile north of Louis’ street. It may or may not belong to the ancient farmhouse standing before it, but Louis hasn’t ever seen anyone walk in or out of that house, so he doesn’t think they’ll have a problem with it.

As he’s strolling down the main path, watching his dog jump around to inspect every new pine cone and slug, he tries not to let his mind wander.

 _Stay in the moment. You’re out in the woods with your dog, because you wanted to show your dog  a good time. Your out here, because of her and you and the slugs and the pine cones. You are not out here, getting your new trainers all muddy and revivinglast week’s sniffle, just because Angie is hanging out with Harry_.

That’s what he tells himself, with every step. Doesn’t do much, really, except for get him so lost in his own head that he hardly notices the car driving up in front of him.

It must’ve come in through the other end of the forest, with the wider trails, tires now straining not to fall sideways off the path as it narrows. It pulls up a little side-path, right before it reaches Louis, and parks there. It stands there, tiny and scratched-up and faded cobalt-blue, as Louis and Cleo approach.

It stands there, looking like any old random cobalt-blue car, until Louis gets close enough to realise that it isn’t. It’s Nat’s old random cobalt-blue car.

She sits in the driver’s seat, alone, eyes closed and head rested back, nodding lightly in tune with the rhythm of her radio. For a second, Louis considers just walking on and pretending he didn’t see her. She doesn’t seem to want to be disturbed and, to be honest, he doesn’t really want to be alone with her.

But, he doesn’t get to make that decision.

Nat opens her eyes, just for a second, looks out of the window and sees him. Her draw drops, her eyes blowing wide and Louis is pretty sure he mimics her expression to a tee.

She rolls down her window. “What the fuck are ya doing out here, chap?!”

“Could ask you the same,” Louis mutters, and it comes off more passive-aggressive than he ever meant for it too, “- _chap_ ,” he quickly adds.

She laughs. “Get over here,” she yells, kicking the passenger-door open, “give me some company, I’m bored out of my mind.”

Reluctantly, he picks Cleo off the ground - which was a terrible mistake because she absolutely drenches his jacket in mud and shit - and trots over to the car. “So, really, what are doing out here?” he asks, stopping before the seat. Part of him is hoping she’ll let him off after a bit of polite small-talk and he won’t actually have to get in and keep her company. “Waiting for a secret lover?”

“Yeah,” she grins, “you. Get the fuck in already.”

“Cleo’s dirty, she’ll ruin your seats.”

“Good thing I am too, they’re already wrecked.” She winks. 

He groans. No getting out of it, then. He crawls into the seat and closes the door behind him on her command, even though he really didn't want to lock himself inside this claustrophobic little car with her.

It isn't that he dislikes Nat; it's just that he hasn't given himself the chance to get to _like_ her either. She's always sort of just been Niall's girlfriend. And, well, the girl who walked in on him and Harry - twice. There's no need here, for a relationship to develop. Nat hasn't ever mentioned what she may or may not know about Louis and Harry, thank fuck for that, but if they did start to talk more, he's sure that she would. As things are now, he's pretty certain the only reason she hasn't asked him what the fuck is up with it, is that they aren't quite close enough that she's felt comfortable to do so. 

"So... Harry's got a new bird, then?"

Christ, some people get comfortable fast. 

"Ehm-" Cleo jumps out of Louis' lap and into the backseats, heading straight for Nat's handbag/Cleo's new chew-toy. "Oh, no, don't-" 

"It's all right, just let her," Nat says, waving him off, "I need a new bag anyway. Had a bottle of lube uncap and ruin the insides. Typical, innit?" 

He coughs and shifts in his seat. "Yeah. Typical," he mutters, and before she has a chance to elaborate on that, asks; "so, why are you here? Really? Who are you waiting for?" 

"Drug-dealer," she says, like it's the most natural thing in the world, "- oh, don't give me that look. It's just a guy who sells me weed every once in a while. It's for me and Niall. His mum works every third Sunday so we smoke up at his place. It's quite romantic, really. - And kinky, at times." 

He realises that there's a used condom at his feet. "I don't doubt it," he croaks, pushing both legs up against the door. 

She gives a dry laugh. 

The car goes a bit quiet. Louis means to ask her why she's waiting out here for her dealer or who her dealer is or why Niall isn't with her or _anything_ in that vein, just to keep the conversation flowing, but he gets a bit lost in his tracks. He's just realised which song it is that's playing on her radio; _Dreams_ by Fleetwood Mac. 

"D'you still smoke, Louis?" Nat asks.

He turns to look at her again, tries to ignore the images the song brings into his head, and the way some of the lyrics seem to fit them so terribly well. "Uhm, no, I quit again," he tells Nat, "but if you're offering, then yes, because I have no spine." 

She laughs and puts a smoke between his lips. She comes too close for comfort, lighting it for him. She's got a bite-mark on the side of her jaw. He tries not to look at it, not because it really puts him off, but rather because he knows she gets some perverted pleasure out of showing it off - and that _does_ put him off.

"So," she says, leaning back into her own seat, "Harry and Angie, huh? Didn't see _that_ coming, mind the pun." 

He groans, both at her joke and the topic. "No, I-"  _thunder only happens when it's raaaaining_ , "- I didn't either, but they seem... well fit, I suppo-" _players only love you when they're plaaaaying,_ "- I'm sorry, would you mind turning that off?" 

She frowns at him, then glances at the radio and breaks into a grin. "Oh god, didn't even notice that was playing," she laughs, finally flicking the radio off, "can't sing for flippin' shit, that Stevie Nicks." 

"Well, I mean, she's-"

"Yeah yeah, I know, they have a few good tunes, but... you get sick of that sort of music sometimes, don't ya? Especially now that all those quirky dipshits keep playing it just for the sake of showing off." 

He laughs. "Yeah, I- yeah, actually, that's exactly right." 

They sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two after that, having a few drags of their cigarettes. 

"He's never on time, that lazy sod," Nat says after a while, "tells me he'll be here around half past and then arrives half past - an hour later." 

"Who is he, anyway?" Louis asks, because he's got to assume she's talking about the dealer, "someone from school?" 

"Nah," she shrugs a shoulder, "one of Niall's old friends' brothers, I think." She blows smoke out through her window and watches it evaporate in the air. "You know, Niall and I started off as fuck-buddies." 

"What?" 

She turns to look at him. "Yeah," she says, "in the beginning, we were just shaggin'. Nothing more, nothing less. Think it was like that for about a year." 

"Why are you telling me this?" 

Her eyes narrow a bit, because she knows he knows why she's telling him this. She doesn't say it, though. "I was just making conversation," she says instead, "you seem like you're in a mood for someone to talk about themselves for a bit." 

Well. "Yeah," he sighs, tipping his head back against the head-rest and glancing out through the windshield, "I suppose you're right. What happened, then?" he asks, "tell me your story." 

" _My story_ ," she chuckles, "well, I suppose it _is_ a story, really. A love-story." 

"Like no other."

She laughs again. She's easy that way. Sort of like Niall, although her laugh doesn't have the same frightening sudden violence to it. "Well, we started shaggin' about two years ago," she goes on, "what a romantic start to love-story, _christ_..."

He chuckles. 

"Well, anyway... at the time I'd just lost my virginity. To a boy I was absolutely in love with - or, as in love as you can be at thirteen - which is _sickeningly_ in love. It wasn't really ever my plan to have sex that early, but - you know, when in Rome..." 

"- what?" 

"And just after I lost it to this boy that I was absolutely obsessed with, he went and exchanged me for my friend. Told me he just wanted to see what it was like to shag a virgin - he was a bit older than me at the time - still is, I suppose. Anyway, he said it was the same as shaggin' a non-virgin, except worse." 

Louis scoffs. "What a prick." 

"Yup. Anyway, after that I was really heartbroken. I knew Niall a bit already, so we started shaggin', just for the sake of it. I don't know, I suppose I just wanted to prove to myself that I could be cool and have sex without feelings. God, I was so stupid back then. I should've been doing my homework or watching daytime-telly instead, I was _fourteen years old_ , for crying out loud. But, you know." 

"I do." 

"Well, ehm, where was I? - oh yeah, so me and Niall started going at it. Reckon he was a virgin before me, actually. But that's irrelevant to the story, so... well, we kept at it for a while. And I was determined to be this cool tomboyish type, you know - the girl who didn't give a fuck about sex, the girl who hadn't spent a month crying her eyes out because the first boy she ever shagged didn't give a shit about her. I told Niall he could go with whoever he wanted as well as me. Hell, I even encouraged him to do it. I'd ask him if he fancied some girl across the room. I'd wing-man him. I'd do all sorts of stupid shit to prove that I really didn't care." 

Louis looks over at her to try and gauge her expression, but he doesn't really know her well enough. So, he just asks; "so, how'd it make you feel?" 

"Christ," she snort-laughs, "absolutely horrendous." 

Right. "I can imagine. It's shit when you... when you, sort of-" 

"Say one thing and mean another," she helps, "yeah. Especially because boys tend to take your word for it. Hell, I'm a girl, and if he'd acted like that toward me I'm sure I would've thought he didn't give a shit too." 

"Yeah..."

She smiles. "Anyway - one day I actually encouraged him to go and pull some girl at a party. Pumped him up for it and everything." 

"And what happened?" 

She drops her gaze to her lap, shrugging a shoulder. There's a self-deprecating little pull on the side of her mouth. "He went and snogged her. Right in front of me. Like I'd told him to do. And I went home and cried myself to sleep." She looks up at Louis, shaking her head at herself, "isn't that just the most pathetic thing you've ever heard?"

"Yeah," he says, smiling a little, "but, you know."

She smiles back. "I do." She shakes her head again, has another drag of her cigarette and blows out through her nostrils as she speaks again; "anyway, after that night I knew I'd been a complete twat to myself. And Niall, really. So, I swallowed my pride and went and told him that we couldn't be doing that kind of thing anymore. That I wanted us to be proper girlfriend-boyfriend, with the label and everything that came with. That it really fuckin' hurt to see him with other people. And, that I was in love with him."

"Wow." Hot ashes drop from Louis' cigarette down onto his thigh. " _Shit_ -" he hisses, realising he hasn't had a drag since Nat started talking. He flicks the smoke out of the window. Done. "So. What did Niall say? When you told him all that?"

She grins. "I remember it distinctly," he says, chuckling to herself, "he said 'are you taking the piss'?"

"Ouch."

"No, it made a lot of sense, really. He had no idea how I felt. And how the hell would he? I never fuckin' told him a thing. But, he told me he did fancy me a lot and he didn't really like having to fuck around anyway. It seemed a lot of work, he said. So, he told me that if I started acting like a girlfriend, he'd start acting like a boyfriend. We shook hands on it. And..." she smiles again, "a year later, we're still going strong."  

"Still smoking weed together every third Sunday," Louis agrees, "and getting your rocks off in front of your friends."

She laughs. "Hey, don't be such a jelly-bean. You can join us if you want. We're always looking for a third for a three-some."

"I think I'm good, thanks."

She laughs and has a last drag of her cigarette. Then she chucks it out of the window and begins to roll it up again. She nods at the windshield. "There he is," she says, "only forty minutes late this time."

In the distance, Louis can see a scrawny bloke making his way toward them. "I think I'll be on my way, then," he tells Nat, "if that guy stinks of weed, Anne will smell it on me a mile away." 

"You better go, then," she chuckles.

He grabs Cleo around the midsection and pulls her out of the backseat against her will. "Nice chatting to you, Nat," he says, and he actually means it. 

As he comes around the car, Nat rolls her window down and calls out; "hey, Louis!" 

"What?" 

"Just wanted to say; you know what I think the moral of that story I just told you was?" 

"What?" 

"That there's nothing weak about asking something more of the people you're with. There's nothing weak about admitting that you care. In fact, I think it's the least weak thing I've ever done in my life."  

 

*

 

Half an hour later, Louis walks up his garden-path and bumps right into Angie. She smiles politely and passes him. She's realised at this point that he doesn't particularly like her, although she probably doesn't know why that is. 

He walks on and into the house, and then, of course, bumps right into Harry. His shirt is on the wrong way round. "Hey," Harry says, softly, and stops at the foot of the stairs. 

"Hey," Louis mutters as he crouches down to unleash Cleo. There's a lump in his throat, the kind that feels like it's growing from your chest and upwards. His heart's been racing since he started walking home again. Since he made the decision in his mind that the next time he got Harry alone, he would force himself to be honest. And he _will_ , he won't chicken out. He just didn't know it would be this soon. "How are you?" 

"I'm good. I'm good," Harry mutters. "You?" 

"Good." 

"Good, that's - good. S'good. Mum just-" 

"Harry, I need to talk to you about something," Louis cuts through. He gets up from his crouch and forces himself to look Harry in the eye, "just you and I." 

Harry blinks. "Uhm-" he croaks, "all right. Yeah, 'course, but- what I was saying was that mum just called everyone down to the dining-room. Think they want to have a family-meeting or something." 

Oh. "Oh. All right." 

Harry smiles and gives Louis' hip a little squeeze. "We'll talk all you want after, okay?" 

"Okay." 

Harry nods, then dips in and pecks Louis on the cheek, quick as nothing. "Come on," he says, slapping Louis' arse, "let's see what this is all about." 

They walk into the dining room, where they find Anne and Troy sitting together on one side of the table and Gemma on the other.

"Uhm... hi guys," Louis mutters, taking a seat, "what's going on?" 

Anne waits patiently for everyone to sit, offers them all cookies and milk and then finally bites down on her lip and looks to Troy for assistance. 

He looks back at her, smiling fondly. "Do you want to or should I..." 

"We're pregnant!" Anne blurts. 

Louis' throat makes a strangled noise. Harry's hand flies onto Louis' under the table, squeezing it to keep him steady. "I'm sorry, what was that?" Louis croaks.

"We're pregnant. Three months today," Anne says, smiling from ear to ear, "you're going to share a little sister in common." 

Oh _no_.


	29. Chapter 29

"Wow," Louis says. 

"Wow," Harry agrees.

They're making their way up the stairs, one and a half hours after Anne and Troy broke the news. Even after the dragged-out Tomlinson-Styles baby Q and A, Louis still feels somewhat in shock. He's going to have a baby sister. Who's also going to be Harry's baby sister.

He's going to be linked to Harry for the rest of his life.

They walk into Louis' room and dump themselves on is bed. Harry grabs the remote and flicks on the telly while Louis grabs his phone to check the time. He realises, too late, that he took Harry's phone and not his own. There are new messages on it. Of course there are. 

**angie - miss you already <4**

**angie - z3**

**angie - <3 * fucks skae**

**angie - sake***

Louis puts the phone back on the nightstand. She isn't even horrible. She isn't even the sort of girl you'd ever really be able to hate. She's lovely, really. She's perfect girlfriend material. Anne would love her, because she's slight and polite. Troy too, because she's sweet and cutesy. She'd fit right in, as Harry's new girlfriend. 

It should really end now, this thing that they've dragged out for much too long. It should really stop, this thing that's making him walk around with a stomach full of knots, day in and day out.  

"You said you wanted to talk about something," Harry says.

He's lying there beside Louis, one arm under his head and the other around Louis' midsection, fingers playing idly with the fabric of his sweater. He's so goddamned gorgeous, all the bloody time. And Louis _knows_ , just by lying here right now, just by looking at him, that this thing wont stop today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that. Not unless Harry stops it, it wont. Louis might be young, but he's not too young to know that he hasn't got much of a spine. None at all, really, when it comes to Harry.

He sighs, trying to gather his thoughts. Sometimes, when Harry lays a hand on him or breathes a little too close to his skin, Louis feels a bit like a hard drive, fucked up by the magnet that is Harry's touch. It's great for turning his brain off and getting his dick wet, but it's terrible for times like now, when what he needs is to be able to fucking _think_.

Harry shifts closer, lays his head on Louis shoulder and nudges his nose into his cheek, and it feels like he's trying to help, but it does the exact opposite. "You said there was something you wanted to talk about, bubz," he says again, because Louis still hasn't managed to find his bloody words, "- and- and whatever it is, I'd rather you say it than keep it in. I want to know what you're thinking." He pauses, for a moment, and then speaks again, because Louis doesn't; "I need to know sometimes, Lou. What's going on in that beautiful head of yours." 

Louis snort-laughs, a desperate ploy to shake off the shivers that just shot down his spine. He opens his mouth to tell Harry to piss off, but Harry puts a finger over his lips and stops him. "Don't tell me to piss off," he says, because he knows Louis much too well, "I'm not pissing off, you should know at this point. So you can tell me what you wanted to talk about or you can lie there and look pretty and I'll probably end up pulling one off on your face. Your choice. Either way, I'm not pissing off." 

Louis laughs, dryly. "'Pulling one off on my face'?" 

"Wouldn't be a first," Harry teases, but before Louis can pinch him or say something filthy, he adds; "- and don't distract me with sex. Come on. What did you want to talk about?" 

Louis closes his eyes. "Hmm," he murmurs, just to buy himself time, "maybe the fact that six months from now, you and I are going to be _actual_ family." 

"Sharing a sibling in common doesn't make us any more related. It just makes us two non-related people that happen to share a sibling in common," Harry replies, and then flicks Louis in the cheek, "- and you didn't know about the kid when you said you wanted to talk. Don't play mind-games with me, Louise. I'm too quick for that shit." 

"Piss off," Louis says, belatedly. 

Harry flicks him again. "Please," he says, a moment later, his voice gone soft and baby-ish.

"Yeah, well," Louis says, "I actually can't remember what it was I wanted to talk about." Harry doesn't say anything, doesn't even sigh exasperatedly to let Louis know that he doesn't buy it. He hardly seems to be breathing. "Like, I, uhm - I genuinely can't recall what it was. Probably wasn't that important." 

Harry still doesn't say anything. 

Louis bites down on the insides of his cheeks. He hates himself. "I mean, I-" 

Without a word, Harry pushes off the bed, grabs his phone and heads for his bedroom. 

"Harry-" 

The door slams shut behind him. 

 

 *

 

After that, Louis stays in his room for exactly one hour. In the space of said hour, he gets out of bed, walks halfway over to Harry's door and then stops himself and goes back to bed, right around fifty five times. In the end, he gets up one last time, throws on a decent set of clothes and leaves the house. 

He begins to walk before he texts Nancy. She drives up beside him halfway to her house and takes him home. 

"That's fucked," she says, around a mouthful of Oreo, just after Louis' told her about the Tomlinson-Styles baby. They're lying in her bed, telly on in the background, a platter of snacks between them and an already half-drunk bottle of cheap wine between Louis' legs. "You still gonna keep shaggin' Haz or?" 

Louis shrugs. "I'd rather not think about it right now," he mutters, and for once, without even trying to, he comes off as less engaged than he actually is. "I'd rather just- get pissed." 

"Yeah." Nancy's got her head in her iPad and crumbs of several different origins around her mouth, "lookin' around for a good party not too far away," she mutters, "you're up for a bit of a party, right?" 

"Hell yes." That is exactly what he needs right now. He takes another big swig of the wine, and even as his taste buds cringe at the bittersweet liquid, another two after that. "Need to get mortal tonight. Just absolutely dead." 

She gives a thumbs-up without lifting her gaze. "On it, babes. Death-bed coming up." 

 

*

 

Two hours later, they're on their way to a party hosted by Nancy's old school-friends' sister's cousin's boyfriend. Or something like that. Anyway, it's nearby and, once they arrive, it's loud and stuffed and chaotic already. It's perfect. 

Nancy and Louis weave their way through the crowd and into a living-room. Nancy sees someone she knows and hauls Louis along. They end up joining a drinking game with one old friend of Nancy's and five people who look too old to be here. Maybe Louis doesn't listen properly when someone rattles off the game-rules, because fifteen minutes later he's both drunk and out. 

He walks around the house for a while, looking for a loo. Once he finally finds one and manages to lock himself in there, he realises his phone's been blowing up. 

**hairystiles - where are u**

**hairystiles - i told ur dad and mum that u were sleeping at a mates but seriously where are u?**

**hairystiles - right whatever. if u cant even answer then forget it**

Louis sighs. If he weren't drunk right now, he might be compelled not to answer these texts. He might want to preserve some sort of self-respect or dignity or just want to play hard to get for the sake of pissing Harry off. But, he _is_ drunk. And he _is_ sad, behind all the fuzziness. And he does need Harry, and his kisses and his touch and his voice. 

So, he calls him up.

"Hello?" a voice says on the other end. Louis' stomach drops. It's her. "Hello, Louis, is that you calling? Harry's just in the shower, d'you want me to give him a message or summat?" 

Louis scratches at his throat, feeling awfully sober suddenly. "No, I- you can," he tries, "you can just, ehm- just tell him I'm sleeping at Nancy's." 

"All right, will do." There's a sound of rustling and footsteps in the background, "- oh, babe, Louis' on the phone, d'you want to talk to him-" 

Louis hangs up. He doesn't need this. He doesn't need this now. 

He gets out of the loo and decides to find another drink. He finds one, but it smells dodgy, so he puts it down again and wanders outside. There's a little patio out here, with a couple chairs and a table. He pulls one of the chairs out and faces it out toward the darkened garden. If he weren't drunk, this would be an incredibly antisocial and just plain weird thing to do. But, well. 

He sits there for a while, how long he isn't sure, since he's fallen into that lovely lax state of drunkenness that feels a bit like being under water. Everything's blurred, even the noises surrounding him. 

Well, everything except for the voice of the person repeatedly yelling his name. "Louis! Louis! Louis, mate! What the fuck are ya doing out here? Louis!"

Louis shakes his head and blinks up at the bloke who's standing beside him now. "No fucking clue," he says, because it's the truth. 

Joseph laughs. "Hang on a second." He goes and fetches a chair, pulls it up to Louis' side and sits down and grins at him. "Didn't know you knew Tommy." 

"Oh please," Louis says, throwing a hand out. "Good old Tommy. Who doesn't know Tommy? I'll tell you who; me."

Joseph frowns, but laughs at the same time. "Mate, you're pissed out of your head."

"Aren't we all?"

"No. No, we aren't all," Joseph says, "well - most people inside are. But, _I'm_ not. Who'd you come with?" 

"Nancy." 

"Where is she?" 

"In there somewhere." 

Joseph nods, looking Louis over for a moment. Then he gets out of his chair and reaches a hand out for Louis. "Come on, then," he says with a smile, "let me walk you home, mate." 

Louis lets himself be hauled out of his chair and dragged through the masses again. It's a long way home without a car, but Joseph's good at making conversation without needing Louis to give any actual input, and he's also good at not asking too many questions. He's also good in those jeans he's wearing tonight, Louis notices, when he falls behind at some point. 

"This is it, then," Joseph says, turning on the pavement as they finally reach home.

It's been hours, Louis thinks. Or maybe half an hour. He feels a bit like there's been a leap in time from the moment Joseph hauled him out of his chair and to this one now. He feels sober. Well, much less _not_ sober than he did before, anyway. He's probably not even close to being sober. 

"You look good in those jeans." Definitely not sober.

Joseph glances down himself and laughs. He's got nice crinkles by his eyes when he does that. "Thanks, mate." He reaches forward and pets Louis' cheek. "You look good too." 

"I look like shit," Louis replies, not because he's fishing for a compliment or feeling self-deprecating, but rather because he just knows that it's true and he doesn't really give a fuck. Tonight was a night for getting pissed, not a night for looking hot and pulling men. Hell, he can't remember the last time there ever was a night for that. 

"You really don't," Joseph says, anyway, nice as he is. Louis doesn't recall ever seeing him in an off mood. Then again, he's never spent much one-on-one time with Joseph. Right now, he's leaning back against the bushes, lighting a smoke for himself. His eyes narrow a little as he has his first drag and then he blows out through his nose and looks out at nothing. "Must get you properly blue-balled after while," he mutters, and it looks a bit like he's talking as much to himself as he is Louis, "being gay and living out here. Not many gay blokes around, are there." 

Louis shrugs and leans back against the bushes as well. "No, I suppose not," he says, his eyes falling upon the dumpsters across the street. The ones he and Harry hooked up behind around new years. That's a long while back now. "But you get a lot of," he stops to make sure Joseph sees the air quotes he makes, "'straight blokes'. If ya know what I mean."

Joseph's eyes widen a bit. "Really?" he chuckles, "what, like, people I know?"

Without thinking - perhaps because he's drunk as shit - Louis nips the cigarette out of Josephs fingers and has a puff himself. "I don't kiss and tell," he murmurs, handing the smoke back with a devilish grin. 

"Me neither," Joseph replies, then flicks the smoke away, turns and kisses him. 

Louis makes a choked noise against his lips, slapping at his chest. "What the fuck?!" he gasps, when Joseph finally pulls back. 

"I don't know what the fuck," Joseph pants, looking just at shocked as Louis, "I just felt like trying that. I've - felt like trying that for a while, actually." 

Louis stares at him, panting into his face. His gaze flicks from Josephs wide eyes, down to his wet half-parted lips, then back up again, slowly. "Well," he croaks out, "try harder, then." 

"Yeah, okay, I-" Joseph rambles, nodding his head like a frantic animal, "yeah, okay." 

Then he kisses Louis again. 

He tastes like Louis probably does too; of smoke and drink and desperation. He kisses like he hasn't had a proper snog in a while and he grabs at Louis' biceps, clasps at his chest and kneads on his bulge, in a way that tells Louis it's something more than that; tells him Joseph hasn't had a  _man_ in a while. If ever. 

Which is just so bloody hot it's ridiculous. 

Louis grabs Joseph by the arms and flips them around, shoves him up against the bush and watches how he gasps at it. "Do you think about," Louis breathes, getting a hand on Josephs bulge. He's so hard already, "what it's like," he squeezes him, roughly, "to touch your mates?"

"Yes," Joseph pants, fucking himself into Louis' hand. 

"Do you think about- what it's like to have another guys cock in your hand? When you pull yourself off?" Louis goes on, watching every little move of his face, feeling every twitch of his cock. "God, you've never even gotten touched by a bloke before, have you?" 

"Let me fuck you," Joseph exclaims, and he looks to close to begging for it Louis almost feels bad for him. Almost feels like fucking the living shit out of him right here. "Or let me- let me suck you off, just- let me try. _Please_." 

"Okay," Louis says, stumbling back a little and grabbing Joseph by the wrist, "okay, let's go inside, then." 


	30. Chapter 30

Joseph leaves early the following morning. 

"Rugby practice," he says as he stumbles around Louis' messed-up floor, pulling his trousers back on, "what the hell did I do with my belt..." 

Louis whistles to get his attention as he lifts the belt up in the air.

Joseph chuckles. "Thanks." 

"No problem, mate." 

He quiets down as he concentrates on pulling his belt through the loops. Louis takes in the lines of his body, thickset and strong and the colour of melted milk-chocolate. "What are you looking at?" Joseph grins, when he finally finishes belting himself up.

"Nothing," Louis replies, only because they both know that he's lying. 

Joseph laughs and pulls on his shirt. "This was really fun, Lou," he says, "and if you're up for it, I'd really love to do it again." 

"Of course," Louis agrees, "once I've recuperated." 

He laughs again. "I mean it," he says, and suddenly, he's much closer than he was a second ago, "that was honestly the best I've ever had," he adds, lowly, and presses a kiss to the side of Louis' mouth. 

Louis grabs him by the collar before he has a chance to move away again. "Hand on your heart?"

"Among other places..." 

Louis laughs and lets him go. 

He kicks out at Joseph's bum while he's still within reach, then watches him stumble and grin and throw a middle finger over his shoulder as he heads out of the door.

Louis sighs happily and stretches his spent body. When he first met Joseph, he never really thought of him as someone to be more than friends with. He never really thought of him at all, to be honest. But, once you have him in bed, naked and hard and so eager to please, it's an entirely different story. 

Louis got off three times last night. First, Joseph sucked him off. He wasn't particularly good at it, but what he lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm. Louis got so into watching Joseph be into it that he came without giving him a chance to move off. He seemed a bit startled, come running down his chin, and he did immediately sprint off to spit, but he seemed forgiving enough, when he came back and proceeded to fuck Louis into the mattress. Twice.  

-

Louis must've dozed back off, because he wakes a while later, at the sound of a door creaking open. 

The first thing he sees is Harry, standing in the doorway of his bedroom. Staring at Louis.

Louis didn't even know he was home last night. There wasn't any music blasting or television-noises or even bloody talking, so in his drunken state, Louis assumed that meant Harry was at Angie's place. He's in his red sweatsuit, hood pulled up around his face. He's chewing on one of the strings, his eyebrows drawn slightly together. Other than that and the fact that he's staring, Louis can't tell what the hell he's thinking. Never can, these days.

"Hey," Louis mutters, pulling his duvet up a bit. He's half-naked still, and if that's any indicator as to what happened last night, he'd rather cover Harry didn't see. He doesn't know why he feels guilty, but he just does, looking at that big red baby in front of him.

"Hey," Harry mutters, "did you have someone over last night?" He looks like he already knows the answer. He looks like it took a lot, just asking. 

"Yeah," Louis replies, even though he wants to say no. No use in lying. No reason too either. "I did, I- yeah. Didn't know you were home." 

He shrugs. "Angie left 'cause her dad wanted her home for some family-thing. But- I was sleeping when you guys got in." 

Louis nods.

Harry nods back. He stands there for a bit, chewing on the side of his mouth, then shakes his head at himself and strides across the room. If Louis were close enough, he might've reached out and grabbed him. He isn't, though, and he doesn't really know what to say to make Harry come closer. 

 

*

 

Over the next few weeks, Louis and Joseph begin to figure each other out. It starts with a text. Then a phone-call and a Netflix-hangout, which turns into thrashing tongues and fumbling hands. It continues like that for a while. In the beginning, when Joseph comes over, Louis smells alcohol on his breath. As the weeks pass, though, he begins to get comfortable with the fact that he's shagging a boy. He begins to feel comfortable referring to himself as gay. 

One time, right outside of school, Joseph greets Harry and Leo with handshakes and then Louis with hug and a peck on the cheek. No one says anything - well, except for making a joke of it. But Harry does look. Once, and then once again, when he thinks Louis doesn't see. 

Louis doesn't even see Joseph that much; mostly on nights that Harry sees Angie, if he's honest. To Joseph, it's experimenting. It's all new enough that, even if he did want more than just sex with Louis, it wont cause problems yet. Right now, he seems content with the late night meet-ups and the hush-hush-ness of it all.

Louis doesn't even know what he's keeping it a secret for, really.

If it's because he feels guilty toward Harry, then that's just plain stupid. If it's because he doesn't like to be seeing two people at once, then there's no problem. He and Harry don't even kiss any more. Louis can't remember the last time Harry touched him, _really_ touched him. Louis tried once, to initiate something, when he was feeling particularly needy and weak and Harry was looking particularly beautiful. But Harry told him no. Told him he wasn't in the mood. Louis hasn't initiated since. Last Harry initiated, Louis was too sore from just hanging out with Joseph to go through with it. Harry hasn't initiated since. 

Maybe it should feel satisfying; giving Harry a dose of his own medicine. Mostly, it just feels like losing him.  

"What are you listening to?" Louis asks, one Wednesday evening, creaking open the door to Harry's room. If he didn't miss Harry so terribly, he might not have had the courage to do it. However insignificant the act of opening a door is.

But, lately, Harry's been going to school, going to his room and then going to school and doing it over again, day after day after day. If he isn't doing either of those two, he's at Angie's or he's going out and stumbling home pissed, knocking into Louis' bed and apologising profusely. Louis doesn't know what's worse; that he's always at Angie's if he isn't here or that they've drifted so far apart that Harry doesn't just laugh and try to fuck Louis' brains out instead of apologising. 

Right now, Harry is lying in bed, big headphones on, some edgily unknown seventies song Louis streaming from them. He's in nothing but his boxers, stretched back on his blue bed-sheets with his arms behind his head, longing more beautiful than- well, anything, really. 

It's a slow song, in his headphones. It's a proper old-fashioned boombox before her bedroom-window love-song. It _isn't_ some unknown song; it's 'It's Too Late' by Carole King. Louis just remembered. "It's Too Late," Harry says then, as he slides his headphones down and Carole sings something so inappropriately appropriate to them that it's almost funny. Almost. "By Carole King." 

Louis nods. He hangs in the doorway, feeling less welcome than ever. It's the most terrible feeling in the world; feeling awkward for pushing yourself on someone who you used to push yourself on just to piss off for fun. "I, uhm-" 

"Is it Joseph?" Harry cuts through. His eyes are blank, his face so expressionless that it's almost an expression in itself. "That's fucking you? It's Joseph, isn't it?" 

Louis' lips drop apart. He knew it would come, that question. He just didn't know it would be today. "Yeah," he breathes, when Harry just keeps staring at him, so patient it's intolerable. "Yeah, it's Joe." 

Harry nods, pressing his lips together and looking away. 

Louis' chest feels tight. "Harry-" 

"Lucky boy," Harry says. He gives a humorless little chuckle. "Bagged yourself a rugby-player, eh?" 

Louis can't even manage to force a snort. "Harry, if it's-" 

"It's not," Harry cuts through again, his head snapping up, "it's not. I don't- I'm happy for you. And him, of course. He's lucky too."

Louis nods at the floor. 

It's quiet for a while, the song having come to an end and their breathing the only thing keeping them from total silence. Louis can feel Harry's eyes on him. 

"Close the door," he says, at some point. Louis lifts his head, just by default, just because he doesn't quite understand. "Close it," Harry repeats, nodding at Louis' hand, still stuck on the door-handle, "if you wanna sleep in here," he says, and then looks Louis right in the eye, something so...  _young_  coming over his face, "please." 

Louis nods again. "Yes, I- yeah," he mutters, closing it soundly.

He stands for a second, staring at the closed door, then nods at nothing and turns. He pads across the floors, stops at the side of Harry's bed and wavers awkwardly. He's in his trousers still, belt on and everything. 

Harry must know what he's thinking, because he shifts closer without a word and begins to unbuckle Louis' belt for him. He undoes the fly and draws Louis' trousers down his thighs. He stops as they drop down from his calves to his ankles, and slides his hand up the back of Louis' thighs, studying him as if he hasn't seen every inch of him a million times before. 

He swallows thickly. "Come here," he whispers, and before Louis has a chance to process his words, pulls him into bed with him. 

They don't have sex that night. They don't even kiss. They just lie there, side by side, feeling farther apart than they ever have. 

 

*

 

When Louis wakes the following morning, he's lying alone in bed. It's a narrow little mattress, but without Harry there's something so massive about it. There's a dip in the pillow where Harry's head lied, crinkles in she sheets were his body was. 

There's an actual Harry, sitting in his office chair across the room. He hasn't gone so far as to put on clothes, but he does have a pink fluffy blanket wrapped around his hunch-backed stature. 

"What are you doing?" Louis asks, because he's too tired to remember that he never initiates conversation with Harry anymore. Too much to risk, too little pay-off. "Oi. Haz," he still goes on, because he can't really handle the way his question gets left unanswered, just hanging there in the air between himself and the back of Harry's head, mocking Louis. "What are you doing?" he repeats. 

Harry finally pauses the game. He still doesn't turn. "Nothing," he mutters, voice rusty enough that Louis knows it can't have been too long since he got out of bed. And, well, the mattress is still warm where he slept. 

"Well," Louis says, when Harry has been staring at a paused game-screen for almost a minute and it's becoming humiliatingly clear that he's just waiting for Louis to leave, "I need a shower." 

Harry doesn't reply. 

Louis hauls himself out of bed, gathers his clothes and heads for the bathroom door. He stops, just for a second, waiting for something, _anything_ , to come from Harry. But, there's nothing.

It's over now, he can tell by the way Harry looks at him - or _doesn't_ look at him anymore. It has ended, all by itself, without having to be stopped or fought or even mentioned. It's just over. It has reached it's natural expiration date. 

And yet. Louis just can't help himself. "You know, we used to be friends," he hears himself say, staring at the back of Harry's head, "before everything, we used to be friends, I thought. I don't even feel like we talk anymore." 

Harry's drops his head. He doesn't say anything.

"Well, anyway," Louis says, trying to swallow down the hard lump in his throat, "I'm sorry I came in here last night. Shouldn't have tried to- I don't even know."

He waits, again, stupid as he is, for Harry to do or say _something_ , just _anything_ , to make him feel like he hasn't been wasting his breath.

Pointlessly, of course. Harry doesn't doesn't open his mouth, doesn't turn, doesn't even lift his chin from where he dropped it to his chest.

Louis walks away then.  Locks the bathroom door behind him and steps into the shower, letting the damping hot water scorch his skin and take away from how cold he feels inside. He should really call back Joseph. He should really reply to those texts he received last night, before he left his phone behind and imposed himself on Harry. He should really stop standing here, wishing like a _fucking_ fool, that Harry would just storm in and take him. 


	31. Chapter 31

"I'm gonna come- I'm gonna come, I-" Joseph muffles a groan in the back of Louis' shoulder as his hips begin to stutter erratically with his orgasm. He rides it out for one, two, three seconds, then pulls out and rolls onto his back beside Louis. 

Louis reaches back and pulls his boxers up, then turns his head on the pillow and watches Joseph peel the nasty condom off his length. "Sorry," he mutters as he attempts to tie a knot in it on slippery lube-fingers, "I- honestly I can last like, at _least_ ten minutes, but you know, you lifted your arse like that and then I just-" he makes a fist-into palm slamming gesture, "pummeled on." 

Louis laughs and flicks him in the side of the face. "S'all right, mate, I came anyway. More my fault than yours, really." 

"Yeah," Joseph agrees, just like that. 

Louis flicks him again. Joseph laughs and lifts the condom over Louis' face, threatening to empty it. Louis shrieks and slaps it out of his hand, consequently launching it across the room. It lands on his floor with a gross goopy noise, cum splattering out of it. 

"Ew." 

"Go pick it up," Louis tells him, rolling over to face the wall and smiling to himself when the beds dips and Joseph gets up without a word.

That's a great thing about Joseph; he does what you tell him to do. There's something about the way he acts around Louis now, now that they've fucked in every sense of the word, that seems so grateful. Which is - well, not always the most attractive thing in the world, if you're in the mood to be cursed at and spoken back to a little, but- it's nice. It's nice on lazy spring Saturday mornings like these, when the sun hits the window in that way that makes you drowsy no matter how late you slept in, and all you really want is some dick and a nice pretty boy to clean up after you.

"Turn over," Joseph tells him as he comes back to bed with a dampened cloth. Louis rolls onto his back, stretching and making a soft little grunting noise, all for show. "You're so cute," Joseph chuckles, dabbing Louis' stomach off, "like a sleepy little kitten."

That's another great thing about Joseph; he doesn't see right through you. You can act all cute with him and he won't baby-voice or randomly lick you up the side of the face for it. He'll just go 'oh. how cute' and that'll be it. It's nice; being able to be whoever you want to be - even if it isn't always who you really are. 

"Louis, I was thinking, like- Louis. Louis," Joseph taps at Louis' chest, "Louis." 

Louis relents, opening his eyes and looking straight up into Joseph's big brown ones. He looks a bit like a puppy-dog, sometimes. "What's up, pup?" 

"I just wanted say that, ehm-" he scratches at the back of his neck, chuckling awkwardly at himself, "wow, this is proper weird, but... right, well, Anne came in when you'd dozed off last night. And she ended up asking me downstairs for tea so I had a cup to be polite - didn't really know how to say no. Anyway, she asked me if I was your boyfriend and I- like, I didn't want to be awkward so I just told her yes. That I was- like..." 

Louis rubs at his tired eyes. "Like...?"

"Your boyfriend," Joseph says, "I told her yes. That I was your boyfriend."

Right. Well, then. "Ehm- right."

"And- I mean, that's not to say that we are, but I just wanted to warn you 'cause she thinks that now, so... so... but, like... what-ehm- just curious, but, eh- what are we? Exactly?" 

Oh dear. "That's a lot this early in the morning."

"Yeah, yeah, no, you- yeah," Joseph shakes his head at himself, pushing off the bed, "yeah, it was - that was a dumb question. I'm sorry. We've only been seeing each other for, what like - a month?" 

Something like that. Could be more, actually. All Louis knows for sure is that it really isn't too short an amount of time for them to start expecting something from one another. Especially lately. They've been fucking a lot lately. After the Harry-thing went south.

And Louis would hate for it to all have just been a rebound-kind of thing. You don't need rebounds from fuckbuddy-relationships. Joseph _isn't_ a rebound from Harry, that's _not_ what this is. "I mean, I'm not seeing other people," Louis blurts, because he has to give Joseph _something_ , "I haven't been for- for a while." 

Joseph face breaks into one big beam. "No, me neither," he says, and yeah, Louis knew that already. Something about the way Joseph goes about giving head. Something about the way he does it like someone who's never ever been graced with the honor of getting to put his hands, let alone his mouth, on another boys dick. "I mean- I didn't think we were, to be honest. With how much we've been seeing each other," Joseph goes on. "Who else would you really have time to run around and see, am I right?" he grins. 

Right. "Aren't you, heh..." 

"Well," Joseph dips down to press a peck to Louis' forehead, "rugby calls." He grabs his bag and heads for the door, then stops in it, throws a smile over his shoulder and adds; "so glad we talked that out, Lou. I was shit-scared we weren't quite on the same page about not shagging other people." 

Well. All right. 

 

*

 

Harry comes through from his bedroom around two hours after Joseph left. He's in trackies, trainers and t-shirt and he oozes of the stench one gets when they don't care enough to shower, yet do care enough to drench themselves in cheap deodorant. 

"Hey," Louis mutters, because he can't handle the thick silence that seems to follow every time he and Harry are alone together lately.

"Hey," Harry replies. He crosses the room, but then stops in the door, turns and asks, "Joseph leave already?"

"Yeah," Louis says. If they weren't this fucking awkward with each other these days he'd mock Harry for asking questions he already knows the answer to. But, they aren't what they used to be. "Yeah. Rugby." 

Harry nods and scratches at the side of his nose, looking everywhere but at Louis. "Yeah, right- right. Yeah." 

He wavers in the door for a while, arms crossed over his chest and eyes on the carpet.

At some point, Louis feels so close to suffocation by silence that he ends up asking a question he really doesn't want or need to know the answer to; "where are you going?" 

"Just, uhm," Harry shrugs a shoulder, "just- Angie asked me over, so..." 

"Right, yeah, 'course." Louis takes his eyes off of Harry. He really has no right to feel the way that he does. To have this ache, this terrible green-eyed monstrous ache, constantly gnawing at his chest. 

After another moment of wavering for no reason, Harry makes a clicking sound with his mouth and turns to leave. 

Without any reason, without any pre-thought or intention, Louis blurts out; "Joseph asked me not to shag other people." 

Harry's back goes rigid, his steps faltering half-way out of the door. He drops his head a bit, seems to be rubbing at his face, maybe the bridge of his nose or his temples, and then he turns around, slowly. "And you said yes?"

Sometimes Harry's so easy to read that it feels like he's intentionally trying to be. Other times he's so difficult it feels like he doesn't even know what he's thinking himself. 

Right now, he's absolutely impenetrable. 

"I, uhm," Louis tries, because the silence is pushing at his throat again, "yeah, I- I think that's what we- what we ended up on. But I don't-" 

"Yeah," Harry interrupts, cutting his gaze away from Louis' the second Louis tries to meet them. He doesn't want Louis to see through him, doesn't want him to know what he thinks. Maybe that's a message in itself or maybe it just means Harry feels sick of all the tension they've created for themselves. Maybe Louis just overthinks. Maybe Harry hardly thinks about it at all. "That's cool," Harry says, "that's- Angie's been nagging me about that kind of thing too, so that's- that's good that you've, kind of like... you know. That's done, then. I'll tell her the same." 

It takes a few seconds for his words begin to make any sort of sense in Louis' head. When they do, somewhat, he still has to ask; "you're going to tell Angie what exactly?" 

"That... like, uhm," Harry lifts a finger to his lips, bites and chews on the tip of it, and Louis wants to tell him to stop, wants to rip it from his teeth and take his sweet baby-face in both hands and kiss those sore-bitten lips of his, but- he doesn't. 

"'That like', what?" he asks instead. 

"That I'm not with anybody else," Harry says, finally meeting Louis' gaze again. There's a hardness in his eyes suddenly, something so out of character that it has to be there to cover up something else. What, Louis can't figure out. "I guess it is for the best as well. That we close it there. And go with the people that it's- that it's easier with," he says, and he's chewing on his fingertips again, "probably," he mutters, and then looks back into Louis' eyes, whatever hardness was there a second ago now completely evaporated, "if that's what you want." 

 _I want you_.  _I want you, all the time, so bad I feel horrible just letting someone else touch me. Like I'm cheating on him and on you and on myself, all at the same time. I miss your touch so bad I can't stand it._ "Yeah, that's- you're right, it's probably for the best," is what he says. 

"Yeah," Harry mutters, and now he's chewing on his poor lip again.

"But we can still be friends," Louis hears himself say, "we used to be friends, Haz. Before all of this. We used to talk."

"Yeah." Harry licks over his frayed lip and then scoffs at the floor. "Before all of this, you used to talk to me," he says dryly, "then, one day, you suddenly decided that I wasn't someone you could trust with your thoughts anymore." 

With that, he leaves. And Louis lies there, chewing on his words. And his own lip. 


	32. Chapter 32

On a Sunday nearing the summer holiday, Nancy brings her friend's friend's friend's friend's mother's friend over for a trim. They set up shop in the living-room because Anne is - regrettably - standing in the hallway when the client arrives and suggests - _commands_ \- it. The client, Patricia, decides she wants her grey's done as well and to Louis' luck Anne finds a spare bottle of dark dye for him. He uses an old raincoat as a cape - deciding that this particular lady wouldn't find the naked lady-cape Nancy gave him for his birthday all that funny - and places a linoleum mat underneath her. 

"Coming along nicely, darling," Anne sing-songs as she re-enters the living-room with a tray of tea and biscuits.

Patricia helps herself to a biscuit and then turns back to the six-year-old magazine Louis found for her. Two pages in the back are stuck together - a bikini add of sorts ( _fucking_ _Harry_ ) - but the bit in the front on how to lose weight while not giving up on chocolate seems to have caught Patricia's attention enough that she doesn't notice. 

Just as Louis finishes mixing the color and sectioning up her hair, the doorbell rings. His stomach gives a little jump in fear, like when he was eleven and thought he heard his dad coming toward his room while in the middle of a wank.

It's just- well, if he can avoid it, he'd rather people didn't... watch him in action. - _Hair-doing action_ , that is. Well _and_ wanking-action too. But hair-doing in particular. 

Anne gets the door, then comes back, beaming like a Christmas-light. "The boyfriend came to see youuuuuu," she sings, so falsetto that Patricia visibly winces at it. 

Joseph comes sauntering into the room with a dorky grin on his face and a sport's bag under his arm. "Hiya," he says, a second before he notices the arrangement surrounding Louis.

Joseph knows about the hair-doing thing - doesn't ask much about it, other than 'well, when are you gonna be done?' or 's'that mean you're minted now?'. They sort of have a non-verbal agreement about it; it's all right that it's a thing, as long as Joseph doesn't actually _see_ it being one. But, thanks to Anne, that's in the bin. Brilliant.

"Oh," Joseph says, stopping in his tracks and scratching at his neck, "you're-" 

"Yeah, I- sorry, I must've forgotten we had a-" 

"No no!" Joseph exclaims, "no, we didn't have a thing but I just- well, rugby got cancelled and I didn't see the memo before I was already there and, well, you know, it's so close to here so I thought I might as well pop by." 

Louis realises he's one second from emptying the entire bowl of hair-dye onto his client's head. " _Shit_ -"

"Joseph, sit down, have a biscuit, please," Anne takes over behind him, "here, have a cuppa- d'you like sugars in your - no, all right, well - oh, sweetheart, would you go upstairs and ask if Harry needs anything?" 

Louis stiffens. 

"Yeah, 'course," Joseph says, the oblivious _oblivious_ munchkin, "s'he up in his room?" 

"I think so," Anne replies, a bit hesitantly, "I mean, he must be, he hasn't been downstairs all day and I bumped into his girlfriend at the grocery store so he can't be with her so - lovely girl, by the way, have you met her, Joseph? Angie, that's her name. Like that Rolling Stones song, you know the one- there _is_ a Rolling Stones song called ' _Angie_ ', wasn't there, Joseph? Or was it, ' _Annie_ '? Oh, I can't remember these things." 

"No, I think it is ' _Angie_ '. Goes someting like, ehm- _you can't say we're satisfi-ii-iiied_ -"

"Ang- _eh_ \- _AAAAAAANG_ -eeeeh-"

"- okay, all right, we get it!" Louis blurts. Patricia turns in her chair to give him a look. Louis turns her head back around by hand-force. "Steady now, love, wouldn't want to accidentally snip you into a pixie-cut, would we?"

She sits still from then on.  

"Well, I better go and check on Hazzer, then," Joseph announces, just chirpily enough that Louis knows it's fake, "should I take the tray up or?"

"No, just tell him I'll make him a sandwich or a proper lunch-meal if he wants - he's getting a bit skinny lately, Joseph, I don't know if you've noticed."

He hasn't been getting skinny. He's as fat as he's always been. But, Louis knows what she means. He's been looking at bit... mopey. 

"Can't say that I have, Anne, can't say that I have," Joseph chuckles, "with your cooking I can't for the life of me fathom why anyone would be losing weight." 

"Oh, youuuuuuuu-" 

Louis doesn't turn to look, because he's too busy rolling his eyes, but he knows, just by the tone of Anne's voice, that she's got Joseph in a death-grip of a cheek-pinch. 

While Joseph ventures upstairs, Louis quickly fixes his posture, so as not to look so... archy-backed, and then finally starts doing his job.

It's not more than a minute or two, though, before Joseph comes trampling down the stairs. Anne's left the room now, thank fuck, and maybe that's why Joseph's polite-soft voice has been replaced by- well, this; "the fuck is wrong with that mopey sod?!" he hisses, "went up to his room and literally all I said was 'your mum asked if you wanted a snack' and the bastard told me to fuck off. Twice." 

"Who are we talking about here?" Patricia asks, because she's finally reached the part of her magazine where the pages stick together. She rids it swiftly, rubs her palms off in her lap and asks again; "who is this 'Harry'-character?" 

"My step-brother," Louis groans, "he's upstairs, being a mopey idiot. I don't know if he's coming down with something or he's just been up all night gaming... who knows." _He_  does. _He_ knows. He and Harry had a fight last night; it wasn't anything serious and it didn't get to the point of throwing things or yelling. It wasn't even important enough that Louis remembers it's origin. It was just- well, it was just one of them trying to make conversation and the other trying to help it along and then someone saying the wrong thing and pissing the other off. It was just the way most of their 'conversations' go these days.

"Well, he's a fuckin' child sometimes," Joseph grunts, dumping down on the couch beside Gemma and Nancy, who've been hooked into a shared pair of headphones, watching a movie on Gemma's iPad through everything, "I asked him why the fuck he was being a dick and he just rolled over in bed and flipped me off. I kept talking to him for a bit, but he didn't answer. In the end, I just left him to it." 

Louis sighs. "Better off that way, mate." 

To his luck, Joseph is that rare breed of person who lets things slide.

"Anyway, I'm going down the shops to get some fags, anyone want anything?" he says, chirpy voice back in action. 

"Maybe a pack of tampons for that Harry-guy."

"Patricia, _please_." 

"My name is Pamela."

Right.

 

*

 

Joseph comes back from the shops with cigarette's for himself, a Red Bull for Louis, dinner-ingredients for Anne, gum for Gemma, a package of six donuts for Nancy - and a diet coke - and then, because he's so fucking perfect it's sickening, head ache-pills and sweets for Harry. 

"Let me," Louis says, when Joseph is about to go up and give them to him. It's a lovely gesture; buying Harry's favorite sweets for him, but if it's Joseph delivering them, Harry will take it as a personal insult no matter how cute and innocent Joseph's puppy-dog smile is. "Can you just- can you go and clean up in the living-room for me? Pandora just left and it's a nasty mess in there." 

"Yeah, 'course, babe." He pecks Louis on the cheek and heads for the living-room. Louis stops in his spot for a second, just watching him. So perfect it's ridiculous. 

It's quite the contrast, finding Harry in a dark bedroom, in stale-smelling sweats and still under the duvet at six pm. He doesn't even take his eyes off of his phone when he hears the door opening. For a second, Louis wants to march off, because he's such a _fucking_ _brat_ , but then Harry does look up and- it's like the flick of switch. Everything in his face. It just goes soft. "Oh. Hey," he murmurs.

"Hey," Louis says tonelessly, "Joseph bought you some Aspirins and sweets."

"Oh, that's- fuck..." Harry drags a hand across his face, "fuck, can you- can you tell him sorry for being such a dick earlier for me?"

Louis sighs. He rests the bag of sweets and pills down on Harry's desk and takes to picking at an old flattened-out gum-stain in the doorway instead. "Why don't you come down and eat with us? Apologise to him yourself?"

"I've got a head-ache." 

Louis grabs the pills out of the bag and chucks them across the room. They land somewhere around the foot of Harry's bed, but he doesn't move to take them. He doesn't need to, really, because if he did, it'd just be for show and they'd both know. He hasn't got a fucking head-ache.

"I'm sorry I- can't even fuckin' remember what we rowed about last night, but... I'm sorry, anyway," Louis says, because he's too tired to be proud and yet too much of bitter bitch not to add on; "hope your head-ache doesn't have anything to do with that." 

Harry ignores the last part, muttering; "I'm sorry too. Shouldn't have called you a bent slag."

Oh yeah. He'd forgotten that part. "Was kind of a dicky thing to do, wasn't it..." 

"Well, you'd just called me a man-whoring cunt, so..." 

Louis chuckles a little. "Right... yeah. Sorry 'bout that." 

"S'all right. So, what, eh- what's in there, then? Just curious." Louis looks up to find a sweet little upward pull on the side of Harry's mouth. He's nodding at the bag of sweets. "Just curious," he says again, lower. Softer.

Louis rolls his eyes, mostly because he doesn't want to look as endeared with Harry on the outside as he just can't help but feel on the inside. He grabs the bag and has a look. "We've got Milky ways..."

"Yay!" 

"And... Bassett's." 

"Yaaaaay!" 

"And... what the fuck... tampons." 

"What?" 

"Tampons." 

"What do you mean, tampons-" 

"Fucking Joe." Not _that_ perfect, then. Louis bites back a laugh. 

"Fucking Joe, what?" 

"Nevermind it." He grabs the sweets and leaves the tampons, pads across the room and drops it all down on Harry's messy nightstand. There are four empty tea-mugs and two plaits with dried-up toast-crumbs on it. "Harry..." Louis sighs, gathering as much as he can carry in two hands, "you've got to just..." 

"I've got a head-ache."

"Yeah," Louis says, meeting his eye with another exasperated sigh, "me too, Harry. All the time, because you're doing my head in."

Harry's face falls. For a second, he looks like he's about to ask something, maybe what to do to make it better, but then he doesn't. Then he just cuts his gaze away, bite his lip and nods down at his own lap. "Don't really know what to..."

"Look, I'm- I'm not saying I treat Angie like a friend, I know I don't, but- just, you know. Joseph was your mate before either of yous even knew I existed. Don't treat him like he's shit now because you're- I mean, he doesn't even know about you and-" Louis shakes his head. He can't say it. He still can't say it, especially not now. "Anyway, there shouldn't be anything for you to be cross with him for, should there? It's not like we were-"

"No," Harry cuts through, "no, 'course not. And that's not why I've been dick, I promise. I just... yeah, I don't know. I'm not jealous, if that's what you're thinking," he lifts his gaze to meet Louis', raising his brows as if to seal his words, "I don't care who you fuck." 

It hurts more than it has the right to. "Okay." 

"And besides-" he drops his gaze again, shrugging a shoulder, "like... It wouldn't be smart if I did. If I _did_ care. What with the baby coming and- the way that _you_ feel about all of it. And Angie, I guess. It wouldn't be smart, would it?" 

Louis moves his gaze away from Harry's down-turned face. "No, it wouldn't," he says, once he's staring at the carpet, able to fucking _think_ again, "so I guess it's good that you don't care." 

 

*

 

That evening, Harry does come down for dinner. Before everyone sits, he pulls Joseph aside and mutters something to him. Louis can't make out their words, but the conversation ends in a firm smile and a half-hug, so he thinks he can guess it.

Nancy gets a phone-call in the middle of dinner; she goes red in the face and insists on running all the way out of the house to take it. "My dad," she says with an awkward chuckle as she comes back in, "just wanted to know when I'd be home." Louis doesn't mention that both he, Gemma _and_ Joseph saw the big fat block-lettered ' **LIAM** ' on her display. 

After that little ordeal, Anne and Troy show ultra-sound pictures to everyone; Joseph is the only one who claims to be able to actually _see_ the fetus. Which, well, doesn't really count, because Louis can tell by the curl on the side of his mouth that he's just being a suck-up. Louis gives his thigh a squeeze under the table. He deserves it, for putting in so much work. 

Then, Anne changes the topic to Louis. To Louis and hair-doing.

"So, I spoke to my friend - remember I told you about her, the one who works in the salon in London, yeah? - well, I spoke to her and her husband, they're just the sweetest - busy as hell, but I suppose that comes with success, or maybe it's the other way round, I don't know, but - well, anyway, I spoke to Sabine and she told me they were taking on a new apprentice after summer holiday. They've begun to narrow the field of applicants down already, but she said that she'd love to have you come in for an interview, Louis." 

"What?" 

"For an interview. If all goes well, I'm sure she'd do me the favor of taking you on, at least that's how I understood it. You know, we go way back, so I'm positive that she'd- you look a bit pale, darling, are you all right?" 

Louis pulls on his collar. It's just a bit- a bit much, what with Harry and Joseph and dad and everyone, all sitting around him, _staring_ at him. "Well, I've got to do my A levels after summer holiday," he croaks. 

"Yeah, I suppose that's the plan," she says, but the tone of her voice tells him she thinks otherwise, "but, you know, Sabine never did her A levels and she did just fine for herself. Not everyone needs to go to college in the traditional sense. And you're so good at what you do - you did an excellent job on Paulina just earlier, I saw. If that's what you want to do, going with Sabine is the best thing you can do for yourself. If you've got that on the resume, you're pretty much set to work at all the up-scale places. And with that pretty face of yours, I mean - you're set, Louis. You're set." 

Louis clears his throat and turns to his dad for, well, anything.

Troy is just sitting there, smiling and nodding. It doesn't even look a hundred percent due to his stupid dorky Anne-obsession. "You _are_ good," he says, "Nancy showed me some pictures earlier." Louis writes a mental note to kick Nancy in the nuts. "If that's what you want to do, I don't think you need to screw around with your A levels. Worst case scenario, you come back and do them later on." 

"But-" It's just all a bit- _a bit fucking much_. "But, would that mean I'd- I can't commute to London from here every day, I-" 

"No of course not," Anne chuckles, "but I have a few friends in London. In fact, I know a very sweet lady in Islington who rents out a spare room - a bit older, I think she's a lesbian, but - you don't have an issue with lesbians, do you?"

"Wha'? Why would I-"

"Well, I don't know, I thought, you know, maybe it was sort of like cats and dogs - lesbians and gays. Don't mesh well."

"That is so incredibly generalizing," Louis exclaims.

"Mate, you told me you fuckin' hated lesbians just yesterday," Nancy pipes up. 

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean _every_ gay does. Joseph doesn't - do you?" 

Joseph crinkles his nose a little. "Ergh... They're always covered in cat-hair and eating asparagus and shit. Icks me out." 

Louis groans expaseratedly. "Right- right- okay. But- what were we even talking about?" 

"You going to live in London," Anne says, folding her hands together with a smile, "we'll set you up with a nice non-lesbian if you'd like. Of course, this is only a suggestion. I just thought, after I spoke to Sabine, that... well, it's something worth considering, isn't it?" 

"Yeah," Louis says, even though the only thing that goes through his head at the thought of it is ' _leaving home so soon. Leaving dad, leaving friends. Leaving Harry_.' "It's definitely worth considering," he mutters, and tries not to overthink the fact that Harry doesn't so much as lift his eyes from his plate for the rest of dinner. 

 

_*_

 

Joseph leaves after dinner, turning down Louis' lazy attempts at making him stay and 'watch some Netflix' in bed. He's got homework. He's got his ill grandparent at home and that soup-kitchen he's volunteering at and that fucking orphanage he's building. Well, he's got homework, anyway. 

So, Louis spends the rest of the evening alone in his room, fixing up a bit of his own homework and then having a brief look at Sabine and her husband's website. Their chain is called ' _Sabine's_ ', funnily enough, and from the looks of pictures, layout and costumer reviews, Anne wasn't talking them up when she said it was a proper upscale salon. The sort of place Louis strives to work at, one day. Maybe even own.

So. It _is_  something worth considering. Even if he can't really handle the idea of considering leaving home and all that he knows again, so soon, like some sort of sixteen-year-old nomad. 

He nods off in front of his laptop, then wakes again around twelve. He pads into the bathroom, too drowsy to remember to call out and check if it's occupied beforehand. Of course, that means it is. 

Harry is in the middle of a steaming hot shower, back and cute little bum facing Louis as he scrubs and scratches lathering shampoo into his hair. He's taken on a few pounds around the thighs, the arse as well, mostly muscle, it looks. Or maybe he just looks better than last because Louis misses his naked body so much he's going a little bit insane from it. 

Louis turns away before his dick has a chance to react to the sight.

"Just so you know, I'm brushing my teeth," he says, because the idea of Harry opening his eyes in a minute and screaming and accusing Louis of sneaking in to lurk at him is just- no. "Be gone in a minute." 

Harry gives a grunt in response, but Louis doesn't miss the sound of his entire body spinning around in the shower.  

"So... what do you reckon?" Harry drawls after a while.

"'bout wha'?" Louis' got a mouth full of toothbrush at this point, so it's a miracle that Harry still seems to comprehend. 

"About the London-thing. That mum talked about... you know, the uhm-" 

Louis spits fast into the sink, because he'd forgotten how Harry tends to drawl on if you don't stop him, "- yeah, yeah, I know what you're talking about," he says, a bit too harshly, and quickly adds; "it's a good question." God, he sounds like a mug. "I mean- I'm not sure, it's- it is something worth considering," he goes on. And then, before he has a chance to use his fucking brain, he tacks on; "what do you think? About it?" 

Harry seems about as startled as Louis that the words came out of his mouth. As he should be. What the hell is he even supposed to say to that? ' _I'll miss you_ '? ' _Please don't leave me_ '? Yeah right. "I don't know," is what he does say, after an embarrassing thirty seconds of swallowing-noises and throat-clearing, "I mean, I- I honestly don't know. It's not really... it's not really up to me, is it?" 

"No. No, it was- it was stupid even-" 

"Wasn't stupid," Harry mutters, stepping out of the shower. Louis instinctively pushes himself closer to the sink to create more space between them. "I just... I mean, I don't think it really matters what I want," Harry goes on, while Louis fights not to watch his reflection in the mirror as he dries his naked body off, "I want you to do what you wanna do, Lou, but-" he sighs exasperatedly, and then meets Louis' eyes in the mirror, as if he knew he was watching all along, "but, like- honestly, it doesn't seem like my place to tell you what _I_ want. If anything, the only guy apart from yourself that you wanna be asking if it's cool for you to leave is Joseph. Now." 

Louis tries not to dwell on the 'now', or the way Harry cut his gaze away a second before he says it. "Right," Louis says, lifting his toothbrush again, mostly just to have something to do with his hands, "right, yeah, you're right. It was just- whatever..." 

"Yeah..." Harry drawls, and then he steps in and reaches over Louis' shoulder to grab his rings off the shelf.

His arm brushes Louis' shoulder, then his cheek, making him go rigid and buzzy at the same time. Making him drop his toothbrush right out of his teeth and down in the sink. "Oh, I-" 

"Oh, here-" Harry reaches under Louis' arm and picks the toothbrush up before Louis has a chance to react. "Do you want to, like-" 

"Oh. Oh, yeah," Louis takes it out of his hand, gives it a quick rinse and leaves it on the side of the sink.

Still, Harry doesn't back up. His front touches to Louis' back, his breathing to the nape of Louis' neck, unsteady and damp, puffing him so lightly that his toes begin to tickle.

He should move. He should move out of it, he really fucking should, but - but, he doesn't. Can't. "Harry, I-" 

"You can't fuck other people now, can you? You can't even kiss." 

"Wha'?" Louis breathes.  

"Joseph doesn't want you to, does he? You agreed. You said you agreed." 

"Yeah," Louis breathes, and it's all he can do not to blurt out 'but I don't give a fuck right now, just take me, take me anyway, do what you want with me, _please_ '. He doesn't, though, because he's not that guy. And even if he were, in a moment of severe desperation, he knows Harry isn't either. 

 "Right," Harry says, finally stepping back, "all right, I-" he steps in again, almost like falling into it, and drops a peck to Louis' shoulder. Then he stumbles to his door. "Good, uhm- night." 

"Yeah. Goodnight, that's- yeah. Sleep well." 

Fucking hell. 


	33. Chapter 33

The last Friday before summer holiday starts, Anne takes Louis up to London for his interview with Sabine. It turns out to be less of an 'interview' and more of a 'let me just see if you're pretty and relatively normal enough - fine, you are, that's good, then the job is yours because I know your step-mum'-kind of thing. They take a walk around the salon and, apart from the fact that she manages to mention Nick Grimshaw gets his arsehole waxed here about six times, Sabine seems like a lovely lady. Everything around here seems lovely, actually. From the subtly botoxed Chanel-wearing receptionist to the bundles of hair-extensions in the back so smooth they might literally be made from silk. 

Hell, even the one token gay guy seems tolerable. Sure, he's wearing mascara and his eyebrows are tattoo'ed on, but at least he doesn't prance around like a fucking parody of himself. He's just a person who does hair and makeup - on himself as well as others. He happens to be gay, of course, but that's beside the point. Perhaps Louis could be like him one day - minus the eye-makeup and the brows. 

On the drive home, Anne fills Louis with stories of her modeling days in London, of all the lovely places to go and to be and to party at. She gets him so excited about all of the good stuff he'll have to look forward to that, just for a moment, he forgets all of the great stuff he'll have to leave behind. 

"Harryyyy! Gemmaaaa! Trooooy!" Anne calls out when they arrive back home at ten pm that evening. "Honey's, we're ho-oooooooooome!" 

There's a shift in the living-room and a grunt from the kitchen, but otherwise no real excitement at their homecoming.

Anne gives an offended snort and shakes her head at Louis. "They don't love us." 

"Oooh, don't say that," Troy exclaims, sauntering in from the kitchen to wrap an arm around Anne's waist and press a kiss to her cheek, "but it has been nice and quiet here for the past few hours, not quite sure why." 

Anne gives him a light gut-punch. "Don't say that, I'm quiet as a mouse," she giggles, "you're horrible. Isn't your dad just horrible, Louis?" 

But Louis is already half-way up the stairs.

What he finds in his bedroom is a sight for sore eyes; one beautiful blue-eyed blonde, stretched across his bed, a chocolate-coloured beefcake, sitting on the floor before it, and a beautiful English rose, crumbled up in the beanbag chair in the corner. It's a sight for sore eyes, yes, and yet it makes Louis' stomach give a little twist; how Niall, Joseph and Harry ended up hanging out just the three of them is beyond him. A while ago, this wouldn't have been anything out of the ordinary. But that was a while ago and this is now. 

And Harry seems to be fake-scrolling down a blank phone-screen just to avoid being part of Niall and Joseph's conversation. He's not even making an effort to hide that fact either, that lazy fucking bastard. _Fuck_ , he looks good in that shirt. 

"Louis, mate!" Niall chucks a chocolate-wrapper at him, "how'd the interview go?" 

"Good," Louis mutters, peeling the sticky wrapper off his face. He aims for the bin, throws and watches the wrapper land on the edge of the bin, then fall off and land on the floor beside Harry's foot. Harry moves his foot away with a grunt, but still doesn't lift his eyes from his phone. Prick. "It went well," Louis tells Niall, deciding to direct his attention at someone who's _actually_ interested in him, " _really_ well, actually. Think I might get it. Pretty certain I will, actually. She said I would, actually." 

"Actually." 

"That's amazing, Louis," Joseph exclaims, throwing both arms out. "Hug!" 

Louis reluctantly moves toward Joseph, but before he reaches him, Niall grabs him by the shirt and hauls him onto the bed with him. "Come here, big guy!" he growl-shouts, "give us a hug, will ya!" 

For the sake of the show, Louis puts up a fight, wrestling out of Niall's arms and cursing a few times. In reality, he's sort of relieved. The thought of snuggling Joseph in front of Harry still feels a bit... wrong. If he's honest. 

"Well, anyway," Niall says, out of breath from laughing himself beet red in the face, "I better head out." 

"What? Why?" Louis exclaims, his anxiety-levels rising at the thought of being left alone in a room with Joseph and Harry, "it's Friday!" 

"Right on, lad," Niall snaps a finger at him, "Friday Fuck-day. I'm heading to Nat's." 

"This late?"

"Yup. She took a nap and didn't wake till a minute ago. Just texted me."

"But- but- bro's before hoes!"

"Good thing Nat isn't a hoe." And with that, Niall is out of the door.

Great.

Louis throws a glance across the room. Harry is still in the same position, black-screened phone rested against one knee and jaw locked tight.

"I'm so proud of you," Joseph says then, and _fuck_ , he's moving off the floor. He crawls up on the bed and follows obliviously when Louis shimmies and shimmies until he backs himself into the wall. In the end, he's laying an arm out on Louis' stomach and pecking him on the cheek, once, and then on the lips, twice.  "So proud of you, Lou," he repeats, because Louis still hasn't replied.

"Thanks," Louis croaks.

Joseph smiles fondly. "And you look really nice as well. I'm sure you made a brilliant impression." 

"You too." 

"Wha'?" 

"You're pretty." 

Joseph chuckles. "Thank you. You too." 

"Thank you. You too." 

Joseph frowns a bit this time, but laughs nonetheless. "You're so cute when you're tired," he says and flicks Louis on the nose.

A groan erupts from the other end of the room. 

Joseph turns, catching Louis' wrist on the way to force him into big-spooning. "Where you goin', Hazzer? Oh, could you get me a glass of water if you're-" 

"Fuck off." Harry slams his bedroom door behind him. 

Just great. 

Louis buries his face in the back of Joseph's sweatshirt. 

"Seriously. What the fuck is up with him lately?" Joseph says, inevitably. When Louis doesn't answer, he tugs on Louis' wrist and goes on; "seriously, babe, it's like he's got beef with me and I've got no way of knowing why. Like, is it- the only thing I can think of is that it has something to do with you. Or, like, me dating you." 

No. No no _no_. "I don't think it does." 

"No, I mean, I really can't see why it would, but- that's literally the only thing that's changed lately... but, like, H obviously doesn't have a problem with the gay thing or some shit like that. And, like... I don't know, do you think it's like-" he shifts around to look Louis in the eye, so Louis quickly resorts to hugging him close and burying his face in his chest instead, "do you think he's got some sort of, like - thing with- you know, like ' _don't date my sister or I'll hunt you down and beat you!_ '-kind of thing? Except instead of sister it's stepbrother. Do you think it's something like that or?" 

If his eyes weren't pushed so deeply into the pitch-black comfort of Joseph's sweatshirt, Louis would roll them. But, he doesn't. He doesn't speak either, because he knows that if he does, he'll have to lie. And the thing is that he _can_ lie to Joseph. Easily. He can look deep into those big oblivious brown eyes and he can lie until his nose grows ten feet long and still get away with it. He knows that about Joseph now. He isn't stupid, he gets the joke, most of the time, but he's easy in some ways. He thinks the world is good. He thinks lying and keeping secrets only happens in the movies. 

And, well, Louis would feel like such a shit if he took advantage of that. 

So, instead of lying to his gullible beautiful poor lovely boyfriend, Louis puts his mouth on a day-old hickey in the crook of his neck and a hand down his pants.

"What are you-"

"Come on, I've missed you all day," Louis says, rolling on top of him, "let's bang our brains out."

Joseph laughs at that. Louis wishes he wouldn't. Or wishes he'd go along with it, just a little bit, just for the fun of it. But he's setting himself up for disappointment, because he should know by now that Joseph doesn't do that kind of thing. Doesn't play along just for the sake of a bit of fake-flirting and fun. He gets the joke, sure, and he laughs at it, defintiely, but he doesn't play along. It just doesn't occur to him. He laughs and he says "you're so cute". It's his way of being with you and it's a very lovely way too. It just isn't always the way Louis prefers it.

"Let's not talk anymore," Louis says, reaching down to unbutton Joseph's jeans, "let's just fuck, okay?"

"Okay, do you want to fuck me or?" 

"No, you fuck me," Louis says, because he's sick and tired of topping, even though he's only done it once or twice this past month. "Please."

"Yeah, yeah, 'course. Yeah. How do you want it?" 

"How do _you_ want it?" Louis asks, "be so hot if you just told me what you wanted and _made_  me do it." 

"All right, yeah, okay. I want you to fuck me." 

Urgh.  

 

*

 

Two weeks into the summer holiday, Louis gets an official e-mail from Sabine and her husband, offering him the apprenticeship. Louis keeps it a secret for all of three days, until Anne confronts him with the fact that Sabine told her he hadn't replied. He voices his insecurities - too far from home, not enough money to survive on, better off waiting until he's done his A levels first - and Anne shoots all of them down easy as nothing. When she was fifteen, she moved to live with a stranger of an aunt, many more hours away from home than Louis, to do her modeling. The money isn't a problem, they'll figure out a monthly allowance to help support Louis - and he'll easily find an extra job on the side in a place like London. As for the A levels; well, A levels, schmae levels, he'd probably fail them anyway and decide to become a musician or something stupid. 

Nancy agrees with Anne; it's a great opportunity. Does he really want to turn it down just to waste two years failing some A levels he wont need to use? Does he really want to let fear of feeling homesick get in the way of his goals and dreams? Does he really want to let the fact that he's afraid Harry wont ever speak to him again the second he leaves here, get in the way of his own life? 

Well, that last one she doesn't say aloud. But, he knows she thinks it. Or maybe he's just projecting... 

Either way, as the holiday goes on and Louis and Harry fall into some sort of terribly comfortable yet false version of the friendship they once had, it becomes clear; he's going to London. He hasn't spoken to Harry about it, but he knows Harry knows because it's all Anne talks about at the dinner-table. 

Once the holiday ends, Louis is going to London and Harry is going to do his A levels in Holmes Chapel, alongside Angie, strengthening their relationship to a point that they'll eventually want to move in together or make an accidental baby. Or he'll meet a prettier girl who he'll want something serious with and then _they_ will eventually end up moving in together and making accidental babies and putting rings on one another's fingers and whatnot.

And Louis - Louis will surely meet some guy. Some guy who's just sort of all right. 

And when they gather for Christmases back home in Holmes Chapel, Harry and Louis will smile politely and catch up on one another's lives, because they don't keep in contact otherwise. Then they'll part and go back to home to their separate lives and they won't have to see each other for another year or so. And, Louis will almost be able to forget. What once meant the world to him.

But for now, the biggest thing Louis has to worry about is the annual last-week-of-summer-holiday lad-week.

Last year, it was replaced by the Budapest-trip that Harry didn't get to go on because of Louis.  This year, it'll be at the bungalow; just the pool and the sun and the lads and Harry and Louis.

And Joseph. 


	34. Monday

He arrives at the bungalow with Nancy. She picks him up from home, loads the car with various one-week necessities and then they head to the bungalow. It's only a ten minute drive through HC, but by the time they pull into the driveway, six of the lads have already accumulated out front. 

"Thank fuck!" someone shouts as Louis exits the car. "Been waiting for a fuckin' hour, mate, what took you so long?" 

"Did you buy booze?" 

"Hey, no girls allowed!" 

Nancy tells that last commentator off while Louis unlocks the bungalow. The lads topple onto Anne's perfectly polished light-wood-floors, getting them all brown and dirty with their muddy trainers and stinky feet.

As they should. 

One week. One week, without Anne telling him what to do and when to do it and how to make sure he doesn't do it dirtily. One week, before London. 

Joseph's still in Italy with his parents, but he should arrive tomorrow or the day after that. Niall is in Ireland, visiting relatives, and - since Nat wasn't available - he took Harry along for the ride. They've been gone for about a week now, but they should be back one of the following days. 

But for now, it's just Louis, the lads and Nancy. No weird tensions, no awkward silences, no constant fear that Joseph might bring up the fact that Louis promised him sixteen times since last month that they were going to talk about the fact that he's moving to London and, more importantly, what that'll mean to their relationship.

Which Louis has been putting off for one reason and one reason only; this week in the bungalow.

Afterwards, they can talk. It won't be nice and it won't be comfortable, but it'll be doable because they won't have to see each other again any time soon. Louis will sit Joseph down and explain to him that what they've had has been fun, but to him that's the extent of it, and that, sure, they can fuck when Louis comes back to visit, but that'll be it from now on. They can't do the long distance. Not when they're so young. Not when they're just embarking on bigger and better things. Not when Louis doesn't really have the kind of feelings for Joseph that makes a sixteen-year-old boy willing to commute every third weekend and keep his dick on a lock-down every other day of the month. 

But, for now. For today. No worries. Just the sun and the lads and the Nancy. 

"Louis, why the fuck haven't you bought any booze, mate?!" 

And that.

 

*

 

"What are we thinking?" Nancy asks, strolling a shopping-cart full of Louis into the liquor shop down the corner of the street. "Jack?" 

"Obvi." 

"Beer?" 

"Couldn't not." 

"Vodka?" 

"Cheapest kind." 

"Rosé?" 

"That right there is _exactly_ the kind of gay shit that makes people say ' _no girls aloud_ '." 

"Heey, Harry likes Rosé too." 

"My point exactly." 

"Well, well." 

They round a corner, heading for the beers, when suddenly, Nancy stops so fast the wheels on the cart screech and spin around themselves. " _Shit_ -" 

"Forgot to grab some mixer, we need mixer for the- mixer, we need-" 

She groans and grunts, fighting to turn the cart around, bottles clinking up against each other and Louis' weight not helping much either.

In the meantime, Louis sees what she's so vehemently trying to keep him from; Lurky. He's at the till with an drunken stumbling lady, who Louis is pretty sure is his mum, trying to help her use her credit card to pay for the bottles of wine she most definitely doesn't need. He's noticed Nancy, and he's lurking now, on both Louis and her, eyes gone wide and lips dropped apart. He looks like he often does; on the verge of speaking, but at a loss for words. 

"Aaargh, come on you sodding- _urgh_ -" with a particularily loud groan, Nancy finally manages to turn the cart around and head Louis back up the isle they just came down. 

If it were any other day, with any other woman, Louis might feel inclined ask her what the fuck she's so afraid of. But, it isn't any other day and it sure as fuck isn't any other woman than Nancy, so he keeps his gob shut and decides she'll tell him when - and if ever - the time is right. 

And, well, he doesn't ever really mind getting steered in the opposite direction of Lurky Liam. As sweet and big-dicked as he might be, he does still have a knack for giving Louis the mean heebie jeebies. 

 

*

 

They make it back to the bungalow in one piece. 

Then they step inside the bungalow and find Niall; _in_ a one-piece. It's green, with a built-in hoodie and feet and in the front it says ' **KEEP CALM AND STAY IRISH, YA FUCKIN' CUNT'**. 

"The fuck are you doing here already, ya fuckin' cunt?" Nancy exclaims, pushing past Louis to run and hug him. 

Niall accommodates her easily, half-lifting her in a hug and laughing violently. "Well, you know," he says, once she's on the ground again and he's caught his breath after laughing at nothing, "had to see my lady, didn't I?"

Nat slips around them to help Louis with the booze-bags. She's in a green onesie too, identical to Niall's, except the front-caption isn't on the front, it's on the bum and it says ' **PROPERTY OF NEIL'**. 

"Who's Neil?" 

"Ask Niall, he's the one who gave me this. Who the fuck is Neil, Niall?" 

"How the fuck would I know, ask the guy who was supposed to write Niall on that shit. Fuckin' cunt." 

Louis laughs. "Missed ya, Neil."

"Aaw. I love you too, mate." 

"Didn't say 'I love you'." 

"Well, you know. You hear what you want to hear." 

"Isn't it." 

"Hey." And, there it is again. That lazy faux-shy drawl.

Harry is in a onesie too, although his caption is a bit longer than the theirs; ' **HOW CAN U TELL IF AN IRISHMAN IS HAVING FUN? HE'S DUBLIN OVER WITH LAUGHTER**.' There's a coy-ish smile on his lips and a flicking of eye-contact. Perhaps the shy isn't _all_  faux. 

Perhaps he's just been enjoying the relief that it is not having to live with Louis this past week. 

"Hey," Louis mutters, low enough that he's certain no one actually hears. He steps back, letting Nancy go in for a hug first. "Ha-HAAA!" she screams, reading Harry's onesie-caption, "that's hysterical, Haz!" 

"Thanks, babe." He pets her cheek, but his eyes are rolling upwards, over her shoulder. Over to Louis. 

Louis gives a thumbs-in-his-pockets head-nod and half-smile. Harry gives a big wide stupid dimple-beam back. Louis drops his gaze to the floor. Fucker. 

They head out poolside where the rest of the lads have gathered. Niall explains that his cool American cousin Lenny had decided last minute to go on a pilgrimage through Spain with his new girlfriend, so Niall and Harry were left hanging out with Niall's deaf grandfather and his nymphomaniac aunt all week. After an 'incident' - Niall's words - with Harry and the aunt, they decided to get out of Ireland and come home a few days early. 

"It was not an ' _incident_ '," Harry hisses, "you're making it sound like something _actually_ happened." 

"Something _did_ actually happen."

"You plow Niall's aunt?" Leo asks. 

"I did not ' _plow_ ' Niall's aunt!" 

"No, he didn't," Niall agrees, "he finger-blasted her in my granddad's kitchen." 

"I did not ' _finger-blast_ ' her, you disgusting pig, she cornered me and stuck my hand up her skirt! She basically raped my fingers." 

Niall pats Harry's chest. "Whatever makes you sleep at night. - as long as it's not with my aunt, am I right?" 

The lads laugh. Harry goes red in the face with frustration. 

Alistair shoulder-bumps Harry. "Angie's not gonna be happy about that, eh? Traded in for an older, Irish model." 

Harry shoves him off and fixes the crinkles in his polo. "She'll be fine because _nothing happened_." 

Niall gives a snorty laugh. "Yeah, tell that to the doctor when he diagnoses you with finger-herpes." 

"I did not _fingerblast_ your aunt, Niall, she's three times my age!" 

"You jerked off to a photo of Susan Sarandon just two days ago!" 

"She holds up _very_ well for her age and you know it!" 

Louis decides to get up and get some refreshments then. 

 

*

 

One too many refreshments later, he's hauling his head out of the toilet-bowl. Well, someone is, anyway. 

"Bloody hell, Lou." Niall, from the sounds of it. "How do you get puke-drunk from beers?" 

"Easy," Louis rasps, slamming the toilet-seat closed and using all of his strength to pull himself up to sit on it, "you drink half a can, then mix it with Jack." 

"That's disgusting." 

"Why do you think I'm puking?" 

Niall drops his head with a chuckle. "Yeah, all right, you win." 

"If this is your idea of winning," Louis mutters, wiping puke off the side of his mouth, "then you're a pretty massive fuckin' loser." 

Niall laughs. "Right." 

Louis gets off the seat, pushing past Niall and stumbling his way out of the loo and down the hall. There's a double air-mattress in the living-room. He knows because he put it there himself, earlier today, back when he wasn't so drunk he couldn't hardly _find_  the fucking living-room. Somehow, he manages, although he nearly throws himself face-first over the back of the couch. Luckily, someone pushes him off and then helps him up and onto the air-mattress.

It's Nancy. 

"Jesus, babe," she chuckles, smoothing his fringe back and pressing a kiss to his forehead, "I'll get you something to drink," she says, and before he gets a word in, "- _water_." 

Louis groans at his head-ache and his blurred vision and the fact that this stupid room is spinning. And, well, that Harry is sitting in the couch right beside him, watching him without saying a word. 

"What?!" Louis hears himself hiss, "what are you thinking? _Speak_ , for once in your life. _Please_." 

Harry just moves his gaze away and shakes his head. He folds his fingers up in his lap, then unfolds them again and then finally re-folds them a last time, sighs and looks back at Louis. "Do you wish I hadn't come here?" he asks, eyes wide and worried. "Would it have been better if I'd just stayed out of your way until you left?" 

Louis' lips drop apart. 

"Here you go, darling." Nancy places a tall glass of water between his clammy hands. When he doesn't do anything with it, she proceeds to wrap a hand around the back of his head as though he were too ill to even attempt to use his neck-muscles. "Go on. Drink, sweetheart."

He does, just to get her to stop coddling him, but it's hard just swallowing when he's so fucking aware of Harry's eyes on the side of his face. When Nancy finally decides he's had enough to survive on, she puts the glass down on the floor by the mattress and pets his cheek and kisses him again. "Sleep tight, babe." 

"Thanks. You too." 

She leaves. 

He turns his gaze to the ceiling. Tries not to tune into the sound of Harry's breathing, slow and shallow at the same time. Tries not to turn his head after a moment, just to see if Harry's still waiting for him to answer the question. Tries not to feel both disappointed and relieved when he does and he is. Still watching him. Waiting for... something. 

"I don't know," Louis rasps, and he can see on Harry's face that that wasn't the right 'something', and he still says it again, because it's the closest thing to the truth he can think of; "I don't know." 

Harry nods. Bites into his bottom lip, shakes his head and then nods again. Says; "I know you don't- I know you don't care, but... I'll miss you. When you leave. I can't-" he stops, just to pick at the corner of his eye, "I can't, uhm- imagine how," he swallows, hard, "how I'll - _fuck_ , I'll miss you." He turns his head again, eyes as big and wide and beautiful as they were a minute ago. As they were a year ago, when Louis met him for the very first time, "so _so_ badly, Lou," he whispers. 

Louis takes his gaze away again, because, well- there's a limit to how long you can look without needing to touch. "Yeah. I'll miss you too," he says, because he's drunk and it's the truth. 

Harry doesn't say anything more, doesn't move either. For a while they just lie there, side by side, on a couch and an air-mattress, three feet between them, air thick with all the things they don't know how to put into words. In the end, Harry does get up. Louis closes his eyes, just so Harry won't see the look in his eyes; the one that always comes when Harry moves to leave and Louis' pride gets in the way of asking him to stay. 

But, Harry doesn't leave. He stops, right there by the side of the mattress, and stays. Still doesn't say a word. 

So, Louis does; "cuddle?" He opens his eyes then, looks straight up at Harry and doesn't look away again, because, well, in for a penny, "let's." 

"I don't think we should," Harry replies, expression firm in a way that tells Louis he's mostly arguing with himself, "I don't want to do that to Joe and-" 

"No, but-" Louis shimmies backwards, patting the mattress, "just- _actual_ cuddles. No funny business, just- just, please." 

Harry takes one step backwards, biting his lip, and for a second it looks like he's on the verge of saying no. Then he sighs, like giving up, and pushes at Louis' shoulder. "Make more room, then," he mutters, "I'll slide right off if you don't move farther back, I'm much bigger than you." 

Louis cackles a little, moving to the outskirts of the mattress and then moving right back to the middle the second Harry lies down.

Harry doesn't object, just closes his arms around him and pulls him close. He's warm and wide and soft and he smells so good, so _Harry_ , that lying up against him isn't enough, so Louis crawls onto him, nuzzles into his neck and rests all his weight down on his torso. Harry buries his nose in Louis' hair and hugs him tighter, bites at the shell of his ear and presses a hurt little noise into his cheek. 

" _Fuck_ , Harry, I-" 

"Shut up," Harry cuts through, voice sharp even though it's a whisper, "please." 

"Why?" 

"Just- just, please. Don't talk. Just let me- let me have this without making me have to do something I'll regret."

Louis pulls back a little, drunk and stupid and greedy for Harry. "Like what?" 

Harry smiles sardonically. "I don't know," he whispers, as his gaze glides down to Louis' mouth and he licks his own lips, "maybe punching you or something." 

 _Or something_. 


	35. Tuesday

He wakes where he fell asleep. It’s a rarity that he hasn’t moved at all, but then again, it’s also a rarity to get to sleep on top of Harry. The sun has come up, mild through the patio-doors and there’s a hum of chatter from the poolside. The others are up already, then. Have most likely come through here and seen Louis and Harry like this. Have most likely thought something about it, quietly in their own heads as they passed.

But Louis’ a bit too hungover to worry about that right now.

A bit too caught up in the big warm boy he’s lying on top of.  Harry is staring at the ceiling, fingers trailing through the back of Louis’ hair, from the top of his head to the nape of his neck and then over again. He’s breathing steadily, chest lifting Louis up with each long inhale, but he isn’t fooling anyone, because his heart is beating like a drum where Louis’ hand lays on his rib-cage.

He must feel Louis’ eyes on his face because he looks down suddenly, right into his eyes. He still doesn’t say anything. His lips look sore and frayed, like he’s been biting them all night, the look in his eyes hard in contrast. There’s a little crease between his brows, one Louis could easily smooth out if he pressed a finger to it, but the set of Harry’s jaw stops him.  

Slowly, Harry’s gaze rolls downwards. So slowly, in fact, that Louis doesn’t realise he’s also coming closer until he can feel Harry’s breath puffing against his lips.

At which point, he’s much too far gone to say no.

He isn’t sure who kisses who first, but the second he feels those lips against his own again, feels the familiar rush of having Harry’s taste on his tongue, it doesn’t fucking matter. There’s a hand at the back of his head, then at his jaw and then suddenly his arse, all needy and grabby.

Harry slips it down the back of his pants, making Louis gasp into their kiss and then hiss when he pushes two fingers up him, dry and big and unwarranted in a way that makes Louis _so_ hard _so_ fast. He groans and winces as Harry fucks his fingers into him and bites down on Harry's bicep as it twitches from how rough he's being.

“Fuck,” Louis gasps, when Harry tries to push at a third, “no, wait, we should- we shouldn't.”

It takes a second before Harry even registers Louis' words. Then he looks down at Louis, as if checking to see if he’s really fucking serious. What he finds in his face makes him pull out his fingers and throw them through his own hair instead, groaning exasperatedly. “Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, “fuck. Fuck-” he hurls a ring across the room, “ _fuck_!”

“Yeah,” Louis sighs, squeezing his bulge just to take the edge off. Harry pushes off the bed then, marching out of the room without another word. “Wait, fuck, Harry-”

Louis leaps after him, but his legs get tangled up in the sheets and then he’s stumbling like a tent-boxered idiot through the living-room and out into the hallway. He doesn’t catch up to Harry until they reach the kid’s bedroom.

Harry is static finally, checking his phone, but there aren’t any new messages on the display and he’s got a ridiculous tent in his trousers too.

"Harry," Louis snaps his fingers at him, " _Harry_." 

"What?" It sounds like he's purposely trying to make himself sound irritated with the entire situation, rather than just desperately fucking horny. It doesn't work because his cheeks are flushed crimson and there's a beat of sweat running down the side of his face. 

"I- you can't just-" Louis stops himself because he knows, even before he starts, that he's spewing bullshit.

 _He's_ the one with a boyfriend. _He's_ the one who's supposed to be able to keep his dick in his pants. _He's_ the one whose responsibility it is not to fuck other people. Of course, Harry has a girlfriend too, but Louis still hasn't quite figured out whether they're exclusive or not. Because, well, he hasn't asked. Doesn't need to know about her. 

While he's standing there, contemplating things that, as a lucky side-effect, seem to help soften his dick back down a bit, Harry suddenly decides to throw caution to the wind.

"Fuck it, then," he hisses, suddenly, and charges at Louis, "but it's _your_ fuckin' fault." 

The force of Harry's weight makes Louis stumble backwards until his legs hit one of the bottom bunks. He topples down on the mattress and Harry follows like a Domino, landing right atop of him. "My bunk," he grunts, pushing himself in between Louis' legs, "we can- s'all right. S'my bunk." 

"Yeah, 'cause the matter of _bunks_ is the main issue."

"Fuck off, you're the one with the boyfriend," Harry retorts, and yet he's unbuckling his belt like he's going to piss his pants in a second if he doesn't.

He pulls his big dick out, angry-red and wet at the tip, and meets Louis' gaze for the first time since they toppled into this little room. There's a sense of pride in his eyes, somewhere behind the anger and the sweaty fringe and the complete and utter desperation, like ' _see what I've got_ ' and ' _haven't you missed it?_ '. Louis would tell him to fuck off and get over himself, if, well - if he wasn't too caught up in how much he really _has_ missed it. The shape, the shade, the _size._  

He rolls onto his stomach. 

"Oh _yes_ ," Harry exclaims gaspily, yanking Louis' pants down his thighs, " _fuck_ yes." He fucks around for a bit, grabbing and kneading and sticking his huge fucking fingers up and in and out and then up again, "fuck, Louis, you-" 

"Get _on_ with it-" 

But apparently Harry's decided to be defiant about it, today of all days, and proceeds to push three fingers up Louis' arse again, deep as they go, and then twisting them so good Louis' toes curl, "yeah?" he breathes, "gonna come just from my fingers?" 

"Yes, I - _ungh_ ," wait, "- no. No, come on, I want your... want you to fuck me." He bites back a ' _please_ '. He's not quite there yet.

There's an odd moment of silence behind Louis, but he doesn't turn to see what's going on because he loves this part; burying his face in the pillow and waiting, high with the thrill of anticipation, like slowly heading for the drop on a roller-coaster, just the right amount of terrified. 

"Fuck, uhm-" there's a sound of spitting, and then Harry's fingers at Louis' rim, then his cock-head, pushing forward. 

Louis gives a choked noise. They don't have lube. They aren't using a condom. He's never done either with anyone before, let alone someone as big as Harry. His knuckles go white, fisting the sheets as he scrambles up on his knee's to accommodate Harry better. Harry spreads him by both hands and spits again, twice, before he finally bottoms out. 

"Oh, fuckin' hell, Louis," Harry drops his head to the back of Louis' shoulder, teeth parting around it. He steadies one arm down on the mattress and the other around Louis' lower belly, holding his arse up, " _shit_ , you're-" 

"Yeah, I- _ungh_ ," Louis manages, twisting his burning hot face in the pillow. He's seconds from calling it quits, because there's a limit to anything, even ' _it hurts so good_ ', but then he feels Harry's lips press to his skin, sloppy little pecks up the side of his face. So, he moves his hand in the sheets, finds Harry's and gives it a squeeze instead. "Okay, just-  _ah fuck, don't do that_!" he blurts, when Harry attempts to give a little pull-out and thrust-in. 

"- _shit_ , sorry." He stills completely, except for his thumbs, stroking in circles over Louis' skin, "sorry, baby," he says and presses a kiss to the side of Louis' mouth, and Louis hates himself for the loop his lower belly automatically does at that. _Baby_. "Okay. Okay, what if I-" Harry rolls his hips experimentally, not really pulling out, but rather massaging his dick around. It's good- it's sort of like when Louis rides and feels selfish and lazy and decides he can't be bothered to use his leg-muscles. 

"It's good," he breathes, giving Harry's hand a little squeeze, "yeah, it's- keep going, it's - _ah_ \- good." 

It gets even better when Harry reaches down to tug Louis off, slowly, in rhythm with the grind of his hips. He stays deep, all throughout, and when Louis begins to squirm and hiss, stills his hips and jerks him faster, until he shoots off in the sheets beneath him.

They stay in position for a while after, panting heavily. 

Minutes - or maybe hours - later, Harry presses a kiss to the nape of Louis' neck and warns him he's pulling out. It stings, more than it usually would, less stretch and more sandpaper, definitely not pleasant, but it's survivable. 

Louis moves to drop his hips and melt into the mattress, but Harry hauls him back up and tells him, "wait, I- hang on, I'm gonna come on you, I wanna, _ah_ -" seconds later, hot streaks of come plaster Louis' arse.  

"Fuck you," Louis mutters, but his heart isn't really in it, and he's too busy twisting his neck to watch Harry tug himself dry, lips red and wet and slack, fringe stuck to his sweaty forehead and his brows furrowed almost angrily.

Once Harry's done, he stills for a second, inspecting his master-piece. Then he gives it a slap, yanks off his t-shirt and wipes Louis' arse with it. 

"Jesus," Louis groans, because, apparently, dragging God's son into this whole ordeal is something his delirious brain wants to do now, "I did not think this through," he shifts onto his back, pulling his pants up and covering his face in both hands, "fuck, how am I going to explain the waggle? I'm going to be so _ridiculously_ sore, I'm such a _fuckin_ ' idiot." 

Harry cackles and straddles him.

He doesn't say anything, just waits patiently until Louis finally gets too curious and takes his hands off of his own face. Harry slaps him in the face with with the cum-shirt and laughs.

"- _bitch_!" Louis attempts to slap him back, with his bare hand, three times.

He fails, every single time. In the end, Harry pins his wrists down on the mattress, easy as nothing. He sits there for a bit, laughing it off, and Louis closes his eyes in the meantime, trying to collect his fucked-up thoughts. 

When he opens them again, Harry's expression has gone soft. Pensive. 

"What?" 

"What?" Harry parrots, but he doesn't even bother to match it with a stupid face, and before Louis can mock him for exactly that, he changes tone and says; "Angie's supposed to be coming tomorrow." 

Louis' stomach drops. "Why?" he asks, and he has no right to sound even half as whiny as he does. He's got his own fucking boyfriend coming too. He can't really help it, though. What with... everything. 

"I invited her," Harry replies simply. 

Louis drops his gaze. "Right." 

"Because I hate to be sat alone in the corner of a room, watching you with him," Harry goes on, "making up excuses when people ask me why I'm in a mood. Feeling sick to my fucking stomach, knowing he gets to put his _nasty_ dick-" 

Louis waves a hand out to cut him off. "I get it. I- it's never nice. It's never nice." 

"No," Harry agrees, and Louis knows that if he opened his eyes right now, he'd find Harry looking down at him already. But, he doesn't. He waits for Harry to get off or to say something else. After a while, he does just that; "I don't mean to sound like a dick or- or put myself on a pedestal or something, Lou. But- I don't think he deserves you. I think he's lovely and all, but- he doesn't even really make you laugh. He doesn't even really get the way you work. He's not- he just doesn't deserve you." 

Right. He doesn't deserve Louis. He doesn't deserve Louis because, apparently, right now, Harry's decided that he thinks Louis' something so precious, so out of the ordinary, that even someone as lovely as Joseph isn't worthy of him. But that's just not fucking credible. That's just no fucking use, when coming from someone who _had_ Louis and didn't even find him precious enough not to go out and fuck someone else. Someone else, who he probably gives this whole spiel to too, when he's just shot off on her arse. 

It's just no fucking use. 

"You should get off of me," Louis tells him, "I should go take a shower." 

Harry sighs. "What, did I piss you off now?" 

"No," Louis pushes him off and gets up, "no, I just- I need to shower now. I stink of sex."

"I'm sorry, then!" Harry yells after him, "sorry that I told you what I fuckin' thought for once, I forget! I forget I'm not allowed to, I forget you don't need me for anything but a quick fuck when you're-" 

"Shut up!" 

"And nice waggle by the way!" he shouts, right as Louis rips the door open. Luckily, no one's in the hall, but it's still so _fucking_ childish. 

He slams the door shut again, spins around on his heel and points a finger at Harry. "Have some _fucking_ respect!"

Harry laughs provocatively. 

" _Seriously_! If not for me then for fuckin' Joseph! I don't want him to be made a fool of if all his mates know this shit before _he_ even does." 

"Oh, _please_ ," Harry scoffs, "if you really cared you wouldn't have done any of this to begin with. Hell, you didn't even lock the fuckin' door, someone could've walked in any second." 

Louis falls short in coming up with a response, because- well, fuck. 

"Shit, that _was_ lucky," he mutters, scratching at the back of his neck, "d'you think they heard us?" 

Harry shrugs a shoulder. He's picking at a tassel on one of his pillows, but his eyebrows are arched much too high for someone who's just casually fiddling his tassels. He's being a dick.

"Answer me with words once in a while, you fucking arsehole." 

Harry's gaze snaps up, wide for a second, and then colder in an instant. "If you ask stupid questions, I won't bother to answer. Simple as." 

"And asking whether you think they heard was a stupid question?" 

He shrugs again, and at this point Louis' pretty certain he's just doing it to piss him off, "you don't really care whether they heard," he mutters, "because if you did you would've thought to lock the door and put on some loud music first. Ergo; it was a stupid question." 

Louis groans. "It's basic human respect to answer people when they ask you something," he says, "so even if you think it's a stupid question, you should have enough respect for people - no, for _me_ , actually, someone you _just_ had your dick up - to answer me when I speak to you. It's not nice when you sometimes don't answer at all. It's... it makes me feel stupid for even trying to speak to you." 

Harry lifts his gaze again, this time to inspect Louis'. "Sorry," he says, after a moment, and it actually looks genuine, "but, like- I guess I'd answer more of what you say if I didn't feel like you were always trying to cover other stuff up." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" He can't help it if there's a bit of an offended tone to his voice. It's never nice; being confronted by people who know how you work.

"Well..." Harry picks at the tassels again, "like... if I feel like you just make a joke so that we don't have to address stuff. Or you- you say one thing and you think something else or- I don't know, it doesn't even matter anymore. I don't know why I try, it's - fuck it. You're leaving in less than a week, we shouldn't be locked in this little room arguing over stupid stuff that doesn't matter anymore. We should go out and hang with our friends. This is... pointless." 

Right. Pointless. "Yeah." 

Harry gets off the bed then, pulls on a fresh shirt and comes toward the door. Louis realises he's been leaning back against it for several minutes, just watching him. He moves to leave, but Harry stops him with a hand on his arm, light as nothing, but still enough to still him completely. "Hey," he says, softly, "sorry if I don't answer you sometimes. It's not on purpose, really. All I ever want to do is have you talk to me. If I forget to answer sometimes it's only because I get so lost in the sound of your voice." 

He throws in a wide grin. 

"Stupid cow," Louis hides a smile and punches him lightly in the chest, "I hate you, did you know that?" 

Harry opens the door and heads out into the hall way. 

"Hey, answer me, you dick!"

Harry barks a laugh. 

Louis slaps him. 

Harry laughs again. "I'm teasing, I'm teeeeasing," he sings, and when Louis tries to slap out at him again, traps his wrist and kisses him again. 

Louis lets himself be pushed up against the wall, weak for just another moment. 

The worst possible moment, as it turns out. "Uhm... hi, guys." 

Harry topples backwards out of the kiss. 

"Oh, eh- hi. Joseph."


	36. Wednesday

Wednesday morning, Louis dips his toes in the pool and calls Joseph for the twentieth time since yesterday.

After Joseph saw what he saw, Harry spent approximately five full minutes trying to utilize his defective improvisational skills. Needless to say, he crashed and burned. Then Louis tried to speak, but all that came out was ‘ _I, uh, I mean I, uhm_ ’ and other Harry-esque noises. Needless to say, Louis wasn’t very successful in salvaging the situation either.

In the end, when both Harry and Louis finally decided to shut up, take a breath and see what Joseph had to say, Joseph was on his way out of the door. Louis chased him a good way down the street, but then Joseph jumped in his car and honked so aggressively that Louis didn’t have the balls to do the old ‘jump in front of your car so you’ll either have to stop and talk to me or drive and kill me’-trick.

So, Louis went back to the bungalow and blew Joseph’s phone up instead. Harry did the same, intermittently, but around the sixth time he did so, Joseph picked up, told him to stick certain things up certain places and then hung up before he had a chance to reply. Joseph hasn't picked up either of their calls since.

Not this one either.

“Joe?” Harry asks, slowly approaching with one hand in his cargo short-pocket and the other above his eyes to spare them the sting of the sun. He looks like a sunburned European dad at a cheap tourist-resort.

“Yeah, Joe,” Louis mutters.

“Did he pick up?”

“Take a wild guess.”

Harry sighs and plops down beside Louis. He dips his feet in the water, big and pale as they flop around beside Louis’. “He’ll be all right,” he mutters after a while, and it sounds like he’s mostly trying to convince himself, “eventually.”

“You’d know better than me, I suppose.”

Harry gives him a look. “What are you saying, that I’m somehow more at fault because I’ve known him longer or?”

“ _What_?!” Louis exclaims, because if _that_ isn’t projecting then Louis doesn’t properly understand the meaning of that word, “how the _fuck_ did you draw that conclusion from what I-”

“- Lads.” It’s Nancy, standing in the doorway with a clenched-up expression on her face. “Louis.”

“What?”

She beckons for him to follow, then turns and walks back in before he has a chance to ask why. It doesn’t take him long before he does, though; there, in the middle of the living-room, wearing the exact same clothes - and facial expression - as he was yesterday, stands Joseph. He’s got his arms crossed tightly over his chest, bulging rugby-boy biceps warning Louis not to get too close until he’s sure Joseph’s calmed down a bit since yesterday.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Joseph mutters. He doesn’t look Louis in the eye or even lift his gaze off the floor, but he isn’t yelling or telling anyone to stick anything anywhere, so Louis supposes it’s an improvement. “I just came to tell you that I don’t want to see you again.”

Right. Well. “That’s fair.” And pretty counterproductive, seeing as he could’ve said this over the phone. But, Louis has no right to judge anyone - particularly not the sweet innocent victim of his pathetic thoughtless behavior. “Joe, I’m really sorry you had to see that yesterday.”

Joseph nods at the floor.

“And - and, ehm- do you want to, maybe-” Louis takes a wary step closer and Joseph doesn’t back up, so, well - it’s _something_ , “maybe sit down and, eh - I can explain some stuff to you or just- I don’t know. Whatever you want, if there’s anything you want to say to me, you can do that. If you want to call me a dick, you can do that, I deserve it.”

Finally, Joseph pries his gaze off the floor and meets Louis’. “Dick,” he says tonelessly, “you’re a dick, you’re cunt, you’re a fucking arsehole, Louis.”

“I concur.”

Joseph sighs, scouts the room, rakes a hand through his hair and then finally throws it out toward the couch. “Well, okay, let’s-”

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course, yeah, whatever you want. Do you- do you want a cup of tea or-”

Joseph just scoffs at that.

Louis takes it as a no and follows him to the couch.

“So, ehm… do you want me to explain it to you or…?” he asks, pressing his body tightly up against the armrest to mimic Joseph.

Joseph doesn't answer for a while. He just sits there, bent halfway in on himself, elbows on his knees and face in his folded hands. Louis decides not to pressure him, because he has absolutely no right to do so. He zips his mouth and waits, constantly glancing over his shoulder to make sure none of the lads come through. Nancy must’ve told them all to stay in one of the other rooms or go around the house and out poolside or something, because the living-room is unusually vacant.

And so terribly quiet.

“Joseph, I…”

“How many times?” He lifts his face out of his hands and looks at Louis, eyes fiery and nervous at the same time, “was it just a few kisses or was it… was it sex? And was it just that once or was it many times? Was it many times, while you were supposed to just be with me?”

Louis swallows thickly. “No, it was- it wasn’t… It was just that once. Sex. Just once, I swear,” he manages, “while I was supposed to just be with you.”

“So it was-” he cuts himself off, blinks and then shakes his head and looks at Louis again, eyes widened, “oh my _fuckin’_ god,” he exclaims, “ _that’s_ why he’s been such a fuckin’ arsehole to me. Since you and I started-” he wipes a hand over his mouth, shaking his head in disbelief, “oh, flippin’ hell, you _absolute_ slag.”

A dry cackle escapes Louis’ lips. “Could say, yeah,” he mutters, “I suppose I haven’t been God’s best child lately.”

“You massive _fuckin’_ whore,” he goes on, staring at the wall across from him instead of Louis, “you’re worse than bloody Twinkle.”

“Easy now, fella, that might be taking it a bit too-”

“You’re fucking disgusting,” Joseph cuts through. His gaze flicks back to Louis’ and he looks both incredulous, like he’s had a sudden epiphany _and_ angry still, “so you- you come to a new house and meet your step-brother and decide ' _hey. I want a piece of that_ '. And so, so you go and make him turn gay for you-”

“Well, I don’t know that I-”

“And make him fuck you until he falls in love with you and you get bored with it. And so you go onto your next new thing; which is me, just because I was at the right place at the right time.”

“No, Joe, that’s not what-”

“And then you go and fuck me over and over and over again basically right in front of your step-brother’s eyes. Mate,” he exclaims, still shaking his head like he can’t believe that people as despicable as Louis even exist in real life, “you’re a _fucking_ psychopath. You’re an absolute fucking psychopath. Toy with people’s emotions just for the fun of it and then- jesus, man. You need help.”

“Well, when you put it like _that-_ ”

Joseph shakes his head and gets up. “You need serious help. I pity the man that ends up marrying you one day. Goodbye, Louis.”

“But, I-”

“ _I said goodbye_!”

He reaches halfway through the room before the patio-doors are slammed open and Harry comes running in. “Joseph, wait! I just wanted to tell you that I never meant for-”

“It’s all right.” Joseph turns. “It’s all right, Hazzer. I understand. It’s that little psychopath's fault. You never knew what was coming until it was too late. I understand.”

“But-”

Joseph lifts a finger to Harry's lips and shushes him softly. “It’s all right, mate. It’s all right. No need for words. I understand.”

Harry’s gaze flicks over to Louis’ in utter confusion, but just as he does so, he gets a hard right-fist slammed into his cheek-bone.

He topples over and stumbles around the room while Joseph rubs his sore fist and watches him contentedly. “But you did fuck my boyfriend,” he says, “so that had to be done. See you at school.”

And with that, Joseph leaves the building.

 

  
*

 

Harry tells the rest of the lads that Louis punched him by accident and Louis allows it because a) he can’t come up with a better excuse as to why Harry suddenly has a huge blackish bruise up the side of his face, and b) he doesn’t really mind the bragging rights that come with evidently throwing a wicked right punch. Despite what might fit a break-up better, it turns out to be one of the hottest days of the summer so far. They spend the rest of it poolside, nursing their tans and fucking around in the water. Some of the lads ask where the hell Joseph is, but Louis just tells them he got ill and no further questions are asked.

Louis dozes off in a sun-bed and wakes feeling like a crispy fried chicken - and not in the good way.

“Time s’it?” he groans, slowly hauling himself up to sit.

Niall and Nat are lying one sunbed over from him, cuddled up in their own little world, but they still hear him and answer.

But, Louis doesn’t hear it.

In a sunbed on the other side of the pool, where shitty music blasts from wireless speakers, sit Harry and Angie. They’re chatting to Leo and Will, sipping on the beers Louis and Nancy bought the other day. She’s in a salmon-coloured bikini, long blonde hair wet and smoothed back from her delicate little face. She’s in his lap, laughing at something Will just said, and he’s got his hand on her thigh, just resting there. 

“Mate. Mate.”

Louis turns to find Niall kicking out at him from the sunbed. He’s moved into a spooning position with Nat now and they’re watching Louis in a way that makes him feel even worse than he already did.

“Bloody hell,” Louis mutters, “think I’ve got a sunburn.”

“He’s a dick, Louis,” Nat replies softly.

Niall doesn’t say anything, but he looks a bit like he agrees. Looks a bit like he isn’t confused what so ever. He knows, then. Everybody knows. What a pathetic fucking fool Louis is.

“Well,” Louis says, pushing off the sunbed, “I’m gonna go put on some cream.”

“You don’t have to go inside just ‘cause she’s here, Lou.”

“I don’t have to stay out here watching them if I don’t want to either.”

Thank fuck he’s leaving soon.


	37. Thursday

He sits where he sat at this exact time yesterday, at the edge of the pool, now single and burnt to a crisp. Well, his depressive mind might have over-exaggerated that last part, but he does feel a tad bit like a leather-bag that someone’s mistakenly tried to use as upholstery for a couch. Stretched-out and used. In more ways than one, come to think of it.

He sighs and smacks his lips. His tongue feels like a dried-out piece of salmon.

“Hello!” he yells out lazily, twisting his neck to look in through the patio-doors, “anyone in there?! Hellooooooo!”

No reply.

He hauls himself up with a groan. “Can’t fuckin’ believe it,” he mutters, “got to get me own fuckin’ water and everythin’, what the hell kind of vacation is this.”

No one hears him because the living-room is empty, which definitely wasn’t the plan, and now he just feels like a nutter talking to himself.

He fastens his pace a bit, hoping for some company in the kitchen, but before he reaches halfway there, he gets stopped in his tracks.

He isn’t sure why he still does this. Why his body reacts by stopping, watching and taking it in; why it hasn't learned to go into emotional self-preservation mode at this point. But, that’s just how he functions. It must be. He must take some fucked-up pleasure in the pain, because here he is, for the millionth time, watching the boy that he loves love somebody else.

They’re in the hall-way, right outside the kid’s bedroom. He’s in black boxers and his red Adidas-hoodie, hood pulled up and little chocolate curls sticking out around his sunburned face. She’s in some kind of sweater-dress, sleeve-covered wrists locked around his waist. Her face is buried in his chest and he’s got one hand stroking circles on the small of her back, the other scratching at her hair.

Louis hates them both and himself. Mostly himself, for still caring enough to fucking hate them.

 

*

 

So, here sits again, half an hour later, with a lukewarm coke in his hand, still single, still burnt to an overstretched leather bag and still as hopelessly in love with that boy as he was the last time he sat here. As he will be the next again.

He knows he should’ve stopped the day he started to feel ' _ew_ ' about their step-cestuous relationship. He knows he should’ve stopped the day he found Harry in bed with her the first time. He knows he should’ve stopped this, before it even started.

But, he also knows now, that he has no spine at all when it comes to Harry. He knows now, that the only way for him to ever successfully end this is to put himself as far away from temptation as possible - or, well, London will do.

He's just got to last another couple of days.

“Lou.” Great.

“Hey.”  

Harry slides down by his side with a heavy thump. “Why’re you sitting out here all alone?” he asks as he plops both his big feet into the pool.

It splashes, just a little bit, up the dry part of Louis’ calves, and he’d pinch Harry for it if he weren’t too concerned with making a point of not moving his gaze from his own toes. “Wanted to,” he mutters. 

“Perfect response,” Harry says, and it sounds like he genuinely means it, “do what you want when you want, that’s a great way of living, innit. Carpe the diem when you’ve got it, eh?” he shoulder-bumps Louis. “C’est la vie, mon ami.”

Louis breaks his unaffected front and replaces it with bitter sarcasm; “Should write poems, you.”

“Oh really? You mean that? You think I could?”

“Yeah, sure. Or even better, you know what you’d be great at? Coming up with cringey t-shirt slogans for idiot tourists.” It comes out drier than it should, but Louis can’t be bothered to take it back.

Harry makes a faux-offended snort, but it comes out weakly because Louis’ spitefulness turned lighthearted banter into… something else.

“So,” Louis says, lifting the tone a bit, “nice weather today, huh?”

Harry gives a little chuckle. “Very nice indeed. Not as great as yesterday and yet I wouldn’t change it for the world, ya know. Suits today perfectly.”

“Yes yes, you’re very right, ‘cause today isn’t yesterday and it shouldn’t ever try to be. Carpe Diem, isn’t it? We needn’t worry about yesterday or tomorrow or-”

“I broke up with Angie.”

Louis’ head snaps up. At the same time, Harry sighs and plops onto his back.

“What do you mean?” Louis blurts, hardly bothering to conceal his excitement. “Why?”

“Wanted to.”

Louis’ mind starts to race. He can’t really- he can’t really- “I can't understand, I- why would you-”

“She wanted us to be boyfriend-girlfriend,” Harry sighs, “and… I’d put that talk off for, like, a ridiculous amount of time. But, we ended up talking about it last night. And I told her that I liked spending time with her. That I liked, you know, all of what we did together. But that I didn’t think it could be more than that, because… like,” he chews on the side of his mouth for a second and then mutters; “‘cause, like, I don’t have feelings for her.”

“You said that to her?”

“Fuck no,” he exclaims, “are you insane? I said I didn’t have _enough_ feelings for her. But… that we could keep fucking if she wanted. I mean, I didn’t- I phrased it differently, because, like… well, you know. But basically, that was the gist of it.”

Louis blinks. “What, so you- you told her you wouldn’t mind fucking still, but you didn’t have enough feelings for her to be in a proper relationship?”

“Yeah, I- yeah, pretty much.”

“And then she left?”

“Hm,” he grunts. Then he coughs, wipes at his nose with the back of his wrist, clears his throat and mutters, “no, like- like, she… like, last night she said that it was all right. I mean, she said it was fine. That we could still… keep on with stuff. I told her she didn’t have to say all of that and that I wasn’t going to, like, change my mind just ‘cause we kept fucking. Because- you know, I don’t want her to walk around thinking if she puts a shitload of time into it that I’ll change my mind. I know myself in that way. I wont.”

“No?” Louis says, and it comes out much breathier than intended, but he can't really find the will to care.

“No, I mean- either it’s there or it isn’t. But, like, she kept saying it was cool and fine and fuck, you know… one thing led to another and she had my dick in her mouth and I just... I couldn’t really think straight and, well- anyway, in the morning, it was just like… I could tell we just, you know- she was doing anything at that point to just, kind of- keep me, I guess. So, I ended it.”

Wow. “Wow.”

It’s… it’s a relief, he supposes. Knowing that what he mistook for a tender embrace half an hour ago was really a long hug goodbye. Knowing that Harry doesn’t, hasn’t ever and won’t ever have feelings for her. Knowing that he won’t have to watch them be together ever again.

But, it’s also kind of scary. Puts stupid questions into one’s head. Like 'what would you say about me if I weren’t here?' Like 'would you tell me the same as you did her or would you 'phrase it differently' just to spare my feelings?'

 _Either it’s there or it isn’t._  

Like 'was it ever there with me?' 

 

*

 

Later that day, Leo announces that the girl he’s been snap-chatting daily for the past four months is finally willing to meet up with him tonight. Provided he provides a party, that is.

“So basically, she sent a group-snap saying she and her girlfriends were looking for a party tonight,” he explains, as the rest of the lads groan and mope about, tidying up the living-room on his demand, “I’m halfway in, guys.”

“You’re a glass-half-full kind of guy, Leo, I’ve gotta give you that.”

“Thanks, but I’ll have to inform you that Lea sent me a non-accidental side-boob snap just the other day. That’s not glass-half-full; that’s glass-half-in, mate.”

“Ew.”

“Lea?” Nancy says, “you’re going out with a girl named Lea when your _own_ name is Leo?”

“Yeah? So?”

“I don’t know, it’s just kind of weird, innit. Be like if Haz dated a girl named Harriet or Lou dated someone named Louise.”

“Why would Louis date someone named Louise? That’s a girl’s name.”

“Well, why would _you_ be dating anyone named Lea? That’s a girls name too.”

Three full seconds pass. Leo just blinks at her.

“HAHAHA!” Louis yells dryly, clapping his hands, “the joke is that you are gay, Leo. That is the joke. Laugh, Leo, _LAUGH_.”

“Why is that a joke?”

“Because it’s an insult to be gay,” Louis explains.

“Wow. What a vicious joke to make.” Leo shakes his head in disbelief. “You sick, _sick_ homophobe, Nancy.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, what has the world come to?”

“Listen, the bird's are here in less than two hours. Someone’s got to pop down to the shops and get some booze and cigarette's before that,” Alistair announces, “- oh, and condoms. Condoms, too.”

“Please, could we at least _try_ to pretend like you aren’t all planning to have sex in my mum’s bungalow?”

“We could, Hazzer, but that would be a waste of everyone’s time, including your own. Now, who’s running to the shops? It’s booze, fags and condoms.”

“- and roofies.”

“Roofies?”

“Yeah, well, you never know,” Leo grins, “desperate times, am I right?”

Leo gets slapped.

 

*

 

Louis and Nancy end up going on the booze-hunt again. Their usual place is closed for some inexplicable reason, and so they head to the second-closest shop, but before they're even parked, Nancy takes a sharp right-turn and drives them out of there. In the rear view-mirror, Louis sees Lurky, walking his stumbling mum to the car. Jesus.

He tries to ask, or rather hint at something, by muttering; “wasn’t that Liam?”, but Nancy just grunts and turns up the radio.

Halfway to the third-closest shop, Louis gets a text from Will that the girls and their friends showed up with shit-loads of booze, so never mind. 

When they arrive back, the scene is a pretty identical to that which Louis found a year ago, during his first week in Holmes Chapel. The girls must’ve brought boys, who in turn brought more girls, who then brought more boys and so on and so forth. The bungalow is crammed, music blasting so loud Louis can’t hear his own thoughts, and, judging from the abandoned glasses and hard liquor-bottles decorating every flat surface, there’s more than enough booze to go around.

Which is why, not three hours later, Louis finds himself where he so often does a quarter way into a party; drunk.

Well, not out of his mind puke-drunk or anything. Not even stumble-around-declaring-his-love-to-virtual-strangers-drunk. But, at least, drunk enough that he doesn’t feel obligated to be anything for anyone, especially not himself. If he wants to sit here, in a chair in the corner of the room, nursing a half-empty bottle of Jack and not talk to anyone, then that’s exactly what he’ll do. If he wants to drain the entire rest of the bottle alone and then have a nice fun trip to the emergency room, then that’s his choice and his choice only. If he wants to sit here, all alone, watching Harry chat up some girl across the room, then fuck anyone who tells him he shouldn't.

If he wants to look away when she giggles and puts her hand on his thigh, then it’s only because the booze is making him queasy.

“Hey, mate,” someone says, pulling a chair over to join him in the single-boys corner, “you all right?”

“Yeah, 'course,” Louis lifts the bottle as a sort of greeting, then takes another swig because it's right by his mouth and why the fuck not? “How 'bout you? Where’ the little chipmunk who follows you around everywhere?”

Niall cackles and takes the bottle off his hands. “Nat’s catching up with Cat.”

“Who’s Cat?”

He takes a swig, wipes at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, burps loudly and shrugs a shoulder. “Old friend of Nat’s.”

“And who’s Nat?”

“Old friend of Cat’s.”

“And who’s-”

“Know when to stop, mate.”

“You know, I sense that I should have.”

Niall laughs. He shakes his head and looks out at the room, and if Louis weren’t so fixated on the bottle in Niall’s hands and how to casually steal it back, he’d say Niall was watching Harry. And that girl. “Who the fuck is that bird with Harry?”

All right. Well. “No idea,” Louis mutters, and then, just for the sake of nonchalance, adds; “she’s well fit, though.”

Niall scrunches his nose up a bit. “In a common sort of way,” he mutters, “dunno what it is with Harry and those skeletons. Like ‘em better with some meat on their bones.”

“Nat weighs, like, six stone. _Max_.”

“Yeah, but- yeah, all right, but, still, though. Still.”

Louis snorts. “Men; you say you want one thing and then go for the exact opposite.”

“Hey, you women are some complicated fucks too.”

“Oh, piss off. I’m no better myself, I didn’t claim that I was. I’m just as shitty as the rest of us.”

Niall moves his gaze back to Louis, inspecting him for second. “I know you are,” he says, “you’re actually one of the worst I’ve met.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Louis shifts in his seat a bit, uncomfortable under Niall's scrutinizing gaze. Niall never looks at you like that; like he’s trying to figure you out. He doesn’t do that sort of shit. He laughs and he jokes and he fucks and he eats, and then he laughs again some more. He doesn’t talk deep and he doesn’t confront you about anything else than ‘who the fuck ate the last chicken wing?’ and he doesn’t sit here, like he does right now, trying to penetrate your brain with his eyes. Niall doesn’t practice that sort of judgmental bullshit; that’s one of the core parts of what makes him so universally love-able. “Stop staring, you cunt.”

Niall laughs and drops his gaze. “Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head, has another swig of from the bottle and then hands it back to Louis, fucking _finally_.

“Jesus Christ, indeed,” Louis agrees, before he lifts the bottle to his lips to burn away the hard lump in his throat.

It works, sort of, until Niall breaks the silence; “you know, I worry about him sometimes.”

“Who?”

“Haz.”

Louis turns his attention back to the bottle, picking at the label. “Why? 'Cause he’s stealing all the girls or-”

“Well, no, he’s actually quite good in that sense. He’s the main attraction, he picks the best option and then the rest of the un-picked options are left, vulnerable for the other lads to devour. - and before you tell me I’m disgusting, those were Nat’s words, not mine. She’s taking sociology as an extra-class, did you know that? She’s so smart.”

“Right,” Louis mutters, but then decides he better leap at the chance to change the subject; “- she really is, Niall. Did I tell you I ran into her in the woods and-”

“Anyway, that wasn’t what I was saying. About Haz.” Right. “I got a bit worried, because… he’s always been quiet, ya know? But he’s gone all… mopey lately. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

Louis shifts again, clearing his re-lumped throat. “Well, it sounded like you two had a good time in Ireland last week. You know, what with Harry fingerblasting your aunt and everything.”

Niall laughs. “Bloody hell, no, that was- she’s a fuckin’ nymphomaniac, her. You’ve got to meet her one day, she’s the best.”

Louis frowns, but Niall doesn’t see it, eyes glazing over as they roam the crowd again.

“Well,” Louis says, “on that note, I’d better go check on Nancy. She’s a bit out of it, I'm not quite sure why.”

He makes to get out of his seat, but then Niall starts to speak again, as though he didn’t hear a word of what Louis just said; “He was crying, you know.”

 **“** Wha'?”

“Harry. In Ireland. He was crying, like, several times for no reason. He didn’t want to talk about it. In the end, I asked if he’d feel better if we went home early. He said all right, so we did. He was crying on the plane too. I mean, he’s always been a sensitive chap, the tear-ducts definitely run smoothly or whatever you say, but- but, ya know, there’s always been a reason. He doesn't just cry out of nowhere.” He looks at Louis, right into his eyes, tells him wordlessly that he knows full-well that they both know he isn’t half as stupid as his words make him out to be, “I hope he isn’t heartbroken or something.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “What are you saying, Niall?” he asks sharply, because this fucking around is starting to get on his drunk nerves.

“I am _saying_ , Louis,” Niall pats the empty seat Louis just got out of, so Louis crosses his drunk arms over his drunk chest and stays standing, just to be drunkenly defiant, “that either you tell him you’re so in love with him that you drink yourself to death in the corner of a room just 'cause some bird is chatting to him-”

“That is _bang_ out of fuckin’ order, where do you get off telling me what I-”

“- _or_ ,” Niall cuts through, so sharply that Louis’ mouth snaps shut, “- _or_ , you decide that, for whatever ridiculous reason you’ve spun up in your own head, you find the whole step-brother thing so unbelievably gross and revolting that you simply _cannot_ see yourself being with Harry. And if it’s the latter - and I'm saying this as both of you's friend, Lou - stop. Fucking. Around. Stop sending mixed signals, just leave it be if you can't see it working out. You’re obviously not helping yourself fucking around with him, I mean, look at you, you're a fucking mess, screwing around on Joe and getting Harry punched and whatever the fuck, I mean- fuck. - And- _and_ , Lou, you're making Harry really fuckin’ miserable too.”

“Looks pretty happy to me,” Louis says, nodding at the boy that he loves, there across the room, kissing someone that isn't him.


	38. Friday

He wakes on the air-mattress, hung-over and dry-mouthed and back-ached. The last part is due to Nancy, who has her sharp knee deeply nested in the small of his back. He could attempt to shift further away from her, but there's a high risk that he'll fall over the edge of the mattress and directly onto that random stack of empty beer-cans right beside it. His hang-over convinces him not to.

“Nan-cy,” he says instead, shifting over to his side. Her knee takes to pressing into his gut instead. “Nancy, for flippin flip, get- _urgh_ -” he pushes at her, but she doesn’t move an inch. “Nancy. Nancy. Nancylin Nanson. Nancy.”

She grunts.

“Nancy.” He pinches her nose and covers her mouth. After an impressive amount of time, she finally starts to go blue in the face and kick and slap at him.

“Eergh,” she groans, before she, fucking finally, opens her eyes and removes her knee from Louis’ intestines. “Oh. Hey. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Louis mutters, rubbing at his sore stomach.

“Get a room,” Leo drawls. 

He’s sitting in the patio doorway, eating a slice of burnt toast and smoking a blunt. He looks happy.

“Did you get laid last night?”

He grins. “Yeah.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Will says, sauntering into the room, “the tip does _not_ count.”

“The tip _so_ counts.”

“The tip doesn’t count,” Nancy declares, “ - unless, of course, you’ve got such a big dick that you can’t possibly fuck anyone with more than just the tip without hurting them. Then, I suppose, the tip will have to do.”

Will stares at her for three seconds, then shakes his head and turns back to Leo. “Well, you haven’t got a big dick, so the tip doesn’t count,” he turns back to Nancy and Louis, as if about to give very vital information - which he is, as it turns out - and adds; “and by 'the tip' he means he got her to _touch_ the tip of his dick, by the way. _Touch_. With her fingers. Not her mouth. Not her pussy. _Her fingers_.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Nancy groans, slapping a hand out, “then none of it matter’s at all.”

“Pretty mean, innit,” Alistair says as he joins them, “touching someone’s dick and then not even having the common courtesy to give them a quick handjob.”

“Vicious,” Leo agrees.

“Hey, now, could be she just felt it and realised how small it was and decided she wanted nothing to do with it,” Nancy argues.

“Anyway,” Will cuts in, “on a less depressing note, some of us _did_ get laid last night.”

Louis can’t help but lift his gaze, giving the room a quick scan. Harry isn’t in here. “Who?”

“Moi,” Will says with a smirk, “and, by the way, I promised my bird scrambled eggs, but I can’t find shit in the fridge.”

“I used the last eggs for that omelet nobody ate yesterday,” Harry drawls, walking into the room with two fingers clenched around the bridge of his nose. He's wearing a snap-back, his red hoodie and the same black boxers as he was yesterday.

“Well, where the fuck is it, maybe I can micro-wave it?”

“No, you can’t, Niall ate it.”

“But-”

“Anyway, could you ask your girl to get out of my bunk?” Harry mutters, “slept in the fuckin’ tub so you could have sex last night, now get her out of there so I can have a proper kip.”

Will gives an unhappy 'eeeh', scouts the room and then throws a hand out toward the couch. “Sleep there. Please, I really like this girl.”

Brilliant.

Harry looks to the couch, then Louis, lying on the mattress less than two feet from it, and then back to the couch. “All right,” he sighs - reluctantly, of course. “But only if you shag her again before she leaves. Otherwise I’ve sacrificed my beauty sleep for nothing.”

“Already on it.”

Louis rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow as Harry approaches. Really, he’d like to turn his back to him entirely, but he doesn’t want to look like an obvious dick and get called out for it, so he sticks to the belly-position. It backfires, though, when Nancy gets up, grabs her phone and mutters something about calling a horse about a man.

Louis sighs hotly into the pillow.

Seconds later, Harry’s big body makes a heavy thump as it flops down on the couch. Minutes later, the rest of the lads have headed out poolside and Louis is left lying there, face in the pillow, with Harry restlessly grunting and shifting around on the couch beside him.

He still forces himself not to look up. He’s asleep. He’s _asleep_ .

“Lou-eh… Lou-eh…” Urgh. “Lou-eh…” he flicks Louis on the arm. “Lou- _is_.” Pinches him. “Tomlin-”

“ _What_?!” Louis gives in, aggressively yanking his head up from the pillow.

Harry is lying on his back, feet up on the armrest and the snap-back now rested sideways on his head because he’s twisting his neck to stare at Louis. “Could you give me Nance’s blanket?”

Right. Louis throws the blanket at him and then pushes his face back in the pillow immediately after.

Of course, no more than two minutes pass before Harry begins to drawl his name and flick and pinch again.

“What now?!”

“The pillow too,” he drawls, and there’s a stupid little upwards pull on the side of his mouth, “pretty pleeease.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but reaches back to grab the pillow nonetheless. He slams it into Harry’s face and then shifts around and turn his back to him. Obvious dick or not, he just can’t focus on pretending to be napping when he’s too close to facing that big idiot.

Harry doesn’t speak again for a while.

He doesn’t speak again until he does; “I didn’t fuck her.” He waits, for two or three seconds, and then says it again, “I didn’t fuck her. The girl from last night.”

“You want a medal or-?”

Harry ignores him and adds on; “she wanted to. She wanted to give me a blow job.”

“Okay, why do I need to know this? Do you get some sick pleasure out of telling people-”

“Not people,” Harry cuts through, “not _people_. You.”

Louis tries to clear his throat, but it’s too dry and he needs water and he needs to get out of here and he needs not to have Harry make this so fucking hard on him. “All right,” he rasps, “so you- you get pleasure out of telling _me_  about your sexual-”

“ _No_ ,” Harry groans, as if he's almost irritated at Louis' lack of comprehending, “fuckin’ hell, Louis, will you just listen to me?”

No, frankly. Frankly, he’s so fucking tired of listening and talking and muttering and fumbling, because he can’t say what he really means, in case Harry doesn’t mean the same back. It's so tiring. He’s so fucking tired.

Harry takes his lack of an answer as a ‘yes’ and goes on; “I was going to take the blowjob because she was hot and it was a blowjob, I mean, why wouldn’t I, right? And it’s not like I’ve got anyone else to worry about. Angie and I broke up and you won't even look me in the fucking eye anymore. So, I could’ve taken that blowjob. I _would’ve_ taken that blowjob.”

Louis resists the urge to turn around, because he knows that if he does, there's a chance he'll forget why he's keeping a distance.

“But,” Harry continues, after a bit, “I couldn’t take that blowjob because I’ve- I-,” he sighs, “I know that it probably isn’t fair of me to put this on you and you don’t owe me anything, that's not what- that's not why I'm saying this, but- but I just- fuck, Louis, I can’t even kiss other people without thinking of how much I'd rather be kissing you.”

Right.

“I doubt you were thinking of me when you were fucking Angie while I was lying in the next room.” It slips, right out of his mouth before he can stop it. Once he's said it, once the words have left his lips, his throat clogs up so fast he doesn’t realise what’s happening until it’s too late. He bites into his lip, hard enough that it doesn’t even hurt anymore, that it just goes numb, and stares angrily at the wall across from him, blurry through the sudden dampness in his eyes. “You say all this bullshit now because I’m leaving, so maybe you can blame this all on me in your own head,” he somehow manages, “but really, the main issue here, between you and I, is one thing and one thing only; you can’t keep your dick in your pants to save your life.”

Silence. It grows, stretches, gets so thick Louis catches himself holding his breath.

“What?” Harry finally says, voice gone breathy.

“You cant,” Louis whispers, because if he tried to use his own voice he’d sound too fucking pathetic, “keep your dick. In your pants. To save your life. And that’s the main issue between us.”

“I can’t keep my dick in my pants? _That’s_ the issue? _That’s_ the core reason our relationship can't work? That’s what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

Then Harry snaps; “oh,  _fuck_ off!” Something gets hurled across the room - the snap-back, Louis thinks. “No, _fuck_ this.”

Next thing he knows, Harry is off the couch. A second later, the front door slams shut, so hard the mattress rustles under Louis.

Louis doesn’t get a second to collect his thoughts before the patio-doors are pulled open and a bunch of the lads topple in.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Alistair exclaims, “who's screaming?”

Just as Louis’ about to pull his face out of the pillow and force himself to smile and make some deflecting joke, the front doors are slammed open again.

Harry comes flying back in, eyes fiery and hair all over the place. “You _fucking_ hypocrite!”

“ _Out, out, out_ ,” Niall chants, ushering all of the lads out of the patio-doors and closing them soundly behind him.

“You are- you are  _fucking_ unbelievable,” Harry yells on, “I can’t even, I- _I’m_ the one at fault here? The _only_ one? Because I can’t keep my dick in my pants? Really? That’s just- that’s just- _fuck_!”

Louis, who shifted onto his back, not on purpose, but just as a result of Harry’s violent entrance, sits stiff, halfway up on his elbows. He’s never seen Harry scream like this. He doesn’t know how to react to this Harry. Honestly, he’s a little bit scared of this Harry.

“So- so- so, hang on, let me understand this,” Harry rambles, one hand tightly fisted in his own hair and the other gesturing wildly out at nothing, “so- so, your opinion on this whole thing is that, if I’d kept my dick in my pants - or, only kept it to you, that we could’ve- that you would’ve wanted- that this could've been something entirely different?”

Louis throws a quick glance over his shoulder, just to be sure they’re still alone. “Would you calm down a bit?” he asks, softening his voice, because there’s very clearly only room for one of them to be aggressive here - if he doesn’t want the entire bungalow to blow up. “Calm down and we can- we can talk.”

Harry throws a hand out with an incredulous noise. “Oh, _now_ you wanna talk? What, because I yelled? Is that what I should’ve done all along, then? Should’ve just screamed and shouted and you would've-”

“Harry, please-”

“No. No, I won’t calm down, actually,” he shakes his head, staring at the wall behind Louis, eyes wide with disbelief, “ _fuck_ no, because- because- do you have _any_ idea what it’s like?” his gaze flicks back to Louis, his brows arched so high they nearly reach his hairline, “to be with someone, who, every _single_  time, without fuckin’ fail, tells you to ‘piss off’ or ‘fuck off’ or ‘come off it’ or ‘give it a rest’ if you say the slightest little thing that might be something more than just a joke, just sexual? Someone, who, for fucking _months_ , makes you come to them? Who’ll never fucking _ever_  be the one to come to you first? Someone who hands you some random girls’ phone number as if it’s completely fucking all right with them that you’d be fucking another person as well?”

His heart is making his head pound. Or maybe it’s the other way round. “Harry, I-”

“And then you- then you tell yourself, every time, because you’re so insanely addicted to them, that maybe, _maybe_ , they’re just insecure. Maybe they feel something for you, because once in a while you get _something_ , just a tiny little bit of something more. You tell yourself you don’t need them to ever say they love you first or ever come kiss you or even let you tell them, just once in a while, how beautiful you find them without being told to piss off and shoved out of bed after. You tell yourself; maybe if I give him time. Maybe, eventually, he’ll come around.”

Louis swallows, even as his throat feels so dry there's nothing to work with.

“And- _and_ -” Harry wipes a hand over his mouth, and then throws it out at nothing, “then, after months and months and fucking _months_ of just waiting, hoping, they’ll eventually start to give you a little bit more, just a tiny little bit of something vulnerable or fucking- _anything_ , they go and tell you; 'hey. You’re being too intense. This isn’t anything more than sex. Stop being so intense. Stop it. Back off. Fuck other people, I don’t give a fuck'.” He meets Louis’ gaze again, nostrils flared and eyes rimmed wet, “and you feel so,” he says exasperatedly, “so _fucking_ stupid. Because you kept trying and trying and trying, waiting and waiting and waiting for this person who, really, just thought you were kind of a nuisance.”

There's a prickling behind Louis' eyes so he takes them off of Harry before it turns into something else.

“And,” Harry goes on, his voice low and sad and _exhausted_ , “and you go and fuck some girl you don’t give a shit about. You tell yourself that it’s okay. You don’t care about him. He obviously doesn’t give a fuck about you, so you don’t give a fuck about him either. You tell yourself that. But really, if you're honest, you feel more disgusted with yourself every time you fuck her because you just want him. You just want him, so much you feel sick with it, and-” his voice cracks over again.

Louis bites into his lip not to say something stupid. Presses his fingernails into his palms not to do something dumb. 

“- and, of course, you don’t stop fucking him,” Harry says, once he’s regained some voice, “you lie to yourself about that too; you tell yourself you only keep fucking him, because it’s sex, it’s there and he's offering, so why not? You tell yourself you fuck him still, just because you can. But, really- you know it’s more because you just can’t _not_. Even when you feel like the lowest most pathetic piece of nothing every time it’s you, _again_ , like it always is, who comes to him first. Begs him, plays it up and flirts and fucking forces yourself on him, just to get to have him again. Even if you have to fuck him at times when what you really want is just to hold his hand and hear about his day. But, you fuck him instead, because you know that if you say anything remotely real, you’ll scare him off. You'll be too intense again.”

Louis’ mouth tastes metallic, his teeth set so deep in his lip to keep it still that he might be drawing blood. He stares at his hands, even as he hates the look of how they tremble, because if he moves his eyes around, god forbid even blink, he’ll- do something stupid.

Harry continues; “And you’re so pathetic - you’re so pathetic and spineless, but that’s just part of who you are now, you can’t even remember what the fuck you were before him - you’re so pathetic that you accept this, just to get to have a tiny bit of him. Even when- even when he finds someone new. Even when seeing him with someone else is just- fucking soul-crushing. And you can’t even say anything because you’re doing the exact same yourself and you have no right to feel the way you feel; you have no right to lie there at shit o’clock at night, listening to some idiot fuck the boy that’s yours, still, in your mind, and cry like a stupid fucking baby. You have no right what so fuckin’ ever to feel it, but knowing that doesn’t make you feel it one bit less.”

“Harry.” Louis’ voice comes out like a whisper, and he isn’t even sure Harry hears, but he needs him to because he needs him to leave before he does something stupid, like cuss or hit or scream, “please, can you give me second to-”

“And then,” Harry cuts through, voice sharp and frail at the same time, “then,” he gives a humourless laugh, “-which is just so fucking horrible that it would be funny if it didn't make you want to throw your fist through a wall,” he says, “this boy tells you- he tells you, after giving you _every_ indication that he doesn’t see you as anything more than a cheap convenience-fuck when he can’t be bothered to call his boyfriend over, he tells you that the reason you and him aren’t anything more than that; that the core reason as to why you and him aren’t everything you’ve wanted with him since you started, is that you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”

He laughs again, the dry sound of it cutting at Louis’ chest.

“- Oh, and then,” Harry adds, in a put-on chirpy tone that makes Louis feel even sicker, “then he up's and leaves. Then he heads off to London and on to new and better things. And you’re left where you were before, except now, of course, you’re so empty inside you want to shoot yourself. - Or let a hundred girls you don’t give a fuck about suck your dick, so that you'll ironically, eventually, live up to his perception of you; that all you care about, all you're good for, is sex.”

He stops, panting erratically.

After a while - Louis couldn't say how long or short if his life depended on it - he asks; “isn’t that just the saddest story you’ve ever heard? Huh, Louis?”

“Sorry to bust up your row, but I seriously need a piss and- mate, are you crying?”

Louis turns, just by instinct, to look over at Leo, and in that one short moment that he does, Harry turns and leaves. By the time Louis turns and finds half a voice to call out for him, the door slams shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there might be some people who really have a hard time seeing that Harry even deserves to be with at all Lou at this point, and I do understand that, and I agree that throughout this fic he's been a complete dick, but I just hope that this makes him, at least, seem a bit more understandable in his dickish-ness.


	39. The Weekend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry in advance for stupid little grammar-mistakes and whatnot. and also, sorry that the chap is quite loooong

Around 5am the following morning, the front door is opened again. It isn’t loudly - in fact it’s so slow and low that it's clear the person’s trying hard not to wake anyone. But, Louis still hears it. He lies there on the air mattress, with Nancy’s knee in his flank, and stares at the ceiling. He has been since he went to bed five hours ago, even after smoking a million cigarettes and downing so many beers his gut felt one sigh from explosion.

He just can’t stop thinking.

Once he hears the door at 5am, and he recognizes Harry just by the way he breathes, he stops thinking. He gets out of bed.  

He finds Harry on the floor, back to the wall, struggling to undo his trainers. The hood of his hoodie is pulled up, the strings tugged out much too far for it to be flattering in any sort of way.

“Need a hand?” Louis asks, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. 

The hoodie must have some sort of in-built noise-muffling effect because Harry’s head snaps up in shock, as though he didn't hear Louis come in at all. “- _shit_ , Louis,” he hisses, “scared the fuck out of me.”

He turns back to his trainers - ones Anne bought him for his birthday. Ones he rarely wears, for the exact reason that it takes him a million years to unlace them. But, they must’ve been the only ones lying around when he got back home yesterday, after running out of the bungalow like his arse was on fire. In fact, he must’ve run through town in bare feet and no trousers. Jesus.

“You seem to have calmed down a bit,” Louis says, at a loss for anything better.

Harry gives a grunt in response.

“You scared the shit out of me too, you know. Yesterday,” Louis adds. There’s something so tranquil about this moment, the dimly lit little entrance-hall and the knowledge that they’re the only ones awake right now, and will be for a while. Something about the mood of it makes Louis have the courage to go on; “you went absolutely mental yesterday. - but, I understand,” he quickly adds, “I do understand why you- why you snapped.”

Harry makes a dry scoffy noise and shakes his head at the floor. “I hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep, I was totally out of it. I’m sorry I went on that manic rant, that was just- that was just... pointless, really.”

“Wasn’t pointless,” Louis says, because if they both feel it, if after all this time and all the shit that they’ve put each other through, they both still feel it so much that they'd run through town, barefeet with no trousers on, it can’t be pointless. Practically, yes, maybe; the timing is off and stupid and a little bit pointless, perhaps. Practically, Harry is right.

But then again, they've never ever been about practicality.

Louis pushes off the wall and steps closer and closer, until he’s standing between Harry’s knees.

Harry looks up, eyes big and nervous, lips pressed thin and colourless around one of the strings of his hoodie. He’s done unlacing the shoes, has been for a while now, but he isn’t getting up. He isn't even twitching. He's just sitting there, pliant and nervous and sweet, waiting for Louis to say something useful.

So, he does; “pull that stupid hood down, Harry, you look like a fucking condom.”

Harry drops his head, giving a surprised little chuckle, but then does as he’s told. He tips his head back against the wall and looks up at Louis again, waiting for words or action or instructions.

It's quite clear, even though the lighting in this little room is dim; the ball is in Louis’ court now.

So, he drops to his knees.

He lands on the space between Harry’s thighs, hard on the tile-floor and he should curse, he _would_ curse, but he doesn’t. He shimmies into Harry’s lap and lets Harry hug him close, one arm around his waist and the other his shoulders, fingers driving up the nape of Louis’ neck and into his hair.

He sits there for a while, waiting for a perfect moment, waiting for something to make it a little bit less easier to speak. Then he realises that what he's waiting for, really, is for Harry to speak first. 

And that’s just too fucking pathetic.

“I’ve been shit-scared,” he therefore blurts, lips pressed to Harry’s ear, “I’ve been shit-scared for a while, Haz. Of- of everything, I suppose. Of what the lads might say... Of what people I don’t even know might think... Of our family; what they'd think about the two of us.” He pauses, looking for a right way to put things into words. He doesn't really manage, but goes on anyway; “But, ehm- but, mainly, I’ve been shit-scared of you, Haz.”

“Why?”

Oh god. “Because, ehm- because, well- when I met you-  almost right away, you- you just had this, this sort of... power over me. This ability to make me feel so… small, sometimes.”

“Oh, Lou.”

Louis gives a breathy little chuckle. “But- but, I’ve been thinking a bit,” he forces himself to go on, “since you had your hissy-fit and all,” Harry bites him, “- _ow -_ and, ehm- and I think that, well, maybe I’ve been scaring myself, most of the time. Coming up with excuses and stuff, and- making a bigger deal of things that, at the end of the day, don’t really matter for shit. So that, when you inevitably got sick of me or got more into someone else or just didn’t feel the same about me as I did you, I wouldn’t get that hurt, you know? Get them before they get you, I suppose. I think, maybe, that’s why I’ve given off the wrong vibe. As to what I- ehm- what I _do_ feel. Towards you.”

Harry gives him a gentle push back so he can look him in these eyes. “And what is that, exactly?” he asks, tilting his head a bit sideways, boyish little smile pulling on his big red mouth, “if you had to put it into words.”

Louis takes a hold of his head, because he can't do it, at least not the first time, when Harry stares at him like that, and whispers into his ear; “I think that- I think that I’ve fallen in love with you, Haz.”

Harry shifts at it, sucking in a sharp breath. He pulls back to meet Louis’ eyes again, so serious that Louis almost wants to bite his nose; “please don’t say that,” he says, “please don't say that, unless you _really_ fucking mean it. Because- because, you’re the one who’s decided to up and leave in a few days. You leave, like, in a minute, and- and you don’t have to feel like you need to tell me something, just out of guilt before you leave, Lou. That’d be…”

“Pretty pointless.” Louis taps Harry's protruding bottom lip. “But…” he clears his throat, realising it’s just as hard saying it the second time- maybe even worse, now that Harry’s eyes are on him, “I know we’ve gotten each other wrong, and that’s partly my fault and - I hope you don’t yell at me again, but- partly yours too. But that doesn’t change how I feel about you. How I've felt for much longer than I care to admit.”

Harry gives a long sigh, eyes still studying Louis’ face, and Louis fiddles with the strings on Harry’s hoodie just to have something to do with his hands.

“But, Louis, you-” he begins, stumbling, “you told me that you didn’t think I could keep my dick in my pants. I mean, you- you said that about Angie and me; having sex right next to your room. You said that was the main issue.”

“Yeah well… I say a lot of shit, don't I?”

“No, but- but I- I just… I remember asking you, like, several times, Lou,” he puts a finger to Louis’ chin, lifting his down-turned face up a little, “whether you weren’t all right with stuff, and- and if what you’re telling me now is the truth then that means… that means- what? That you were lying every time you said you didn’t give a fuck about me with other people?”

Louis closes his eyes, swallowing at the hard lump in his throat. Yeah. “It wasn’t- it wasn’t fun for me, all right?”

“No?” Harry breathes.

“It was-” his voice turns into a whisper as the images he's repressed for so long returns to his mind's eye, “it was, like...it was like dying. It was like, like I wanted to, wanted to rip my heart out and just fuckin’ throw it through the wall and- yeah, it was… It wasn’t nice for me.” He shakes his head, wipes at his waterlines and clears his throat. “But it wasn’t right of me to blame it all on you. I did that to myself, I insisted I didn’t give a fuck, just to prove some shitty meaningless point to myself, it was-”

“I’m sorry.” Louis’ head snaps up at the brittle sound of Harry’s voice. He’s crying again, red-nosed and wobbly-lipped. He reaches out and cups Louis’ face, wipes his waterlines with his thumbs and whispers; “I’m really _really_ sorry I did that, Lou. I’ve been an arsehole. I should’ve- I should’ve tried harder to understand the way you work or, or- I should’ve kept my dick in my pants. I really should’ve just- because, I mean- Lou, you’re the only one I feel I _need_ to touch. I don’t need to touch anyone else, I just,” he licks over his lips, shaking his head at himself, “girls've always been easy for me. It's always kind of, been my thing I guess- that I can flirt well and make people... want me. I guess I did, sort of, need that confidence-boost really quickly, when you’d just told me we needed to stop the intensity of things. But it was so fucking stupid.”

“No, you crying is stupid,” Louis sniffles, lifting the collar of Harry’s hoodie up to wipe his wet baby-cheeks, “you’re making me cry too.”

“You were crying already, you mug.”

“At least I know how to keep me dick in my pants, you stupid manwhore.”

Harry bites his lip and chuckles nasally as he flips Louis off.

They just sit for a while after that, not saying anything. Louis fiddles with the strings on Harry’s hoodie, watches his own shaky fingers create loops and knots and undo and re-do them again and again. He can feel Harry’s gaze roam his face, the slow steady lift of his chest under the hoodie and his fingers scratching back and forth, now at the sides of Louis’ thighs.

Eventually, he breaks the silence.

“Well, not that it comes as any sort of surprise at this point, but just for good measure, I’ll say it anyway; I am too,” he says, “in love with you, Lou.”

Louis bites his lip over a smile, and keeps his gaze down because he knows that if he didn’t, Harry would be able to see exactly how much of an effect he has on him. “Okay,” he mutters, nodding a little, and his feelings prove stronger than his pride, the crooks of his mouth pulling upwards, “that's- that's good, then. That's good. We're on the same page, that's- good.”

Harry pets his cheek. “Wanna come sleep in my bunk with me?”

“Well, aren’t the other lads in there too?”

“Not in _my_ bunk,” Harry says, pushing Louis off to get up and then reaching a hand down for him, “come on, I’m really tired. No funny business,” he grins, “I promise.”  

Louis groans and rolls his eyes, but it’s just for show, and he lets Harry haul him up to stand and sneak him into the kid’s bedroom, easy as nothing.

 

*

 

Many hours later, Louis wakes without a knee in his flank.

He’s facing the wall, the duvet tugged in around his shoulders, and his head is rested atop of Harry’s outstretched arm. Harry's hand is bent in against the wall, right before Louis’ face, and Louis can’t help but crane his neck and lick the inside of his palm. Harry half-gasps and then chuckles, curling his fingers into Louis’ mouth and hooking them behind his teeth.

Louis bites them.

“Oooow,” Harry exclaims, whiny like a child, “vampire-teeth.”

Louis gives him another little nibble, then spits the fingers out and shifts around. It’s a tight squeeze still, this little bottom bunk, but it doesn’t really matter because Harry’s body’s more than wide enough for Louis to crawl up and lie on comfortably. Harry's on his back, head propped up on two pillows, and he’s fucking around on his phone, because why the fuck wouldn’t he be?

“Sleep all right?” he asks, not moving his eyes off of the phone, even as he closes two fingers around Louis’ earlobe and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Yeah,” Louis replies, before he snatches the phone out of Harry's hand and flings it across the room. It hits the floor, hard, the screen smashing to pieces and going black.

Harry watches it happen, stunned speechless, then looks back at Louis, almost curiously. “Why’d you just do that?” he asks simply, not a shred of anger in his expression, “why’d you just smash up my phone, Lou?”

“I don’t know,” Louis shrugs a shoulder, “wanted to.”

Harry fish-mouths and nods, then takes Louis by the jaw and kisses him. He tastes like he’s been to the loo and rinsed his mouth and brushed his teeth and then sneaked back into bed, and he kisses like he expects Louis to open up and spread his legs and roll onto his back immediately.

So, Louis keeps his teeth together until Harry pulls back with a gasp and a pouty face. “Open up,” he whimpers, “Lou- _is_.”

“Why?” Louis grins, and he’s having far more fun watching Harry not get his immediate way than he should.

“Please,” Harry kisses him again, wet and smacking, slack lips against Louis’ tight-closed ones, “please,” he grabs Louis between the legs and tries to force them apart, “come _on_ , you stupid slag, just-”

Louis barks a laugh and catches him between his thighs, pulling him onto himself as he tips onto his back.

The door’s only closed half-way and Louis can hear the radio streaming from the kitchen, the hum of the other lad’s chatting, even over the wet, sloppy sounds of his and Harry’s tongues as they get reacquainted. There’s a song playing now, as Louis drags his fingertips up Harry’s spine and Harry moves his lips down his neck. He knows it, he’s heard it before, he likes it, sometimes, but he can’t remember the name of it. He never really listened to the lyrics before, not until now.

_How are we gonna move together? Just come closer_

Harry must feel his distraction, or just sense that this isn’t a time for _that_ , because his mouth is replaced by his nose, nuzzling into Louis’ neck. He’s hard against Louis’ thigh, but he always is, and Louis is too, a little bit, but neither of them move to do anything about it. Not right now.

_If we don’t move together, come closer_

Harry rests his head on Louis’ chest, nose-tip at the dip between his collarbones, and draws circles around the jut of Louis’ hip.

_How we gonna breathe? How we gonna be together?_

“I love you,” Louis says, just because he means it. He stares at the planks in the bunk above him when he says it, thinking of other things that have to do with them, and then he says it again, just for good measure, “love you.”

Harry snakes an arm around his waist and presses a kiss to his chest. His mouth is still half-buried in Louis’ chest, but he thinks he hears him say it back still, just before James Bay sings; _before you go, turn around, and let me hold you._

“S’a good song, innit.”

“Yeah, it’s- it’s not too bad.”

“Mhm.”

_Just keeping the peace, between the sheets._

 

*

 

An hour or two later, they get out of bed and shower separately. It’s the big clean-up day, seeing as everyone’s leaving tomorrow to start school or work on Monday. Usually, Louis would do the absolutely least possible amount of work and feel the highest possible sense of relief once everyone else had finished cleaning at the end of the day. But, today it’s actually all right; gives him a chance to keep his hands so busy that he doesn’t have a moment to stop and think.

Because if he did do that, if he did stop and think, he’d have to come to terms with the fact that he’s leaving in less than two days. If he did stop for a second, and let Harry wrap an arm around his waist from behind and kiss the back of his ear, he’d only be making it all worse on himself.

Of course, he knows all of this even though he doesn't let himself think about it. He knows it because, no matter how many plates he scrubs or how many empty cans or broken vases he puts away, he can’t help fucking thinking about it. He can’t help it that it’s still the most important thing in this tiny little bungalow.

Maybe to Harry too.

“Hey,” he says, catching Louis in the bathroom where he’s standing on the toilet-seat, smoking out of the window. He thought he’d locked the door, but apparently not, because there Harry is, with a mop and a bucket and a nervous smile on his beautiful face.

“Oh. Hey.” Louis flicks the cigarette out of the window. “That’s the last one, I swear,” he tells Harry, wiping at his mouth with the back of his sleeve in some ridiculous attempt to get the nicotine-stench off his breath, “done with me last pack now, so… so, I won’t ever smoke again.”

It isn’t a lie, really. It’s as true right now, in this particular moment of determination, as it has been all the other times he’s decided to quit.

“Never ever,” Harry chuckles, the patronizing prick, “I feel like I haven’t seen you since this morning.”

“No, well, I’ve been- cleaning and whatnot.”

“Oh yes, I see, you’re very busy.”

Louis flips him off and jumps off the toilet-seat. He slaps up the seat and grabs the toilet-brush, scrubbing at the already perfectly clean walls inside of it. Harry doesn’t comment on it, luckily, just goes about mopping the floors quietly.

After a bit, tough, he does speak again; “the other’s are all planning on going to a party next town over tonight. Sort of, round off the week.”

“Oh. Right, well-”

“I told them I wasn’t going.”

Oh. “Why?”

“I told them you weren’t either.”

Louis drops the brush into the toilet. He leaves it there, because fuck it, and turns to frown at Harry. “What- why would you-”

“Because I wanted to,” Harry says simply, but before Louis can curse at him for his neverending succintness, he stops mopping the floors, straightens up and says; “I told’em we had some talking to do.”

“Seriously?” He thought they’d done enough talking by now. It’s not that he’d ever mind a night alone with Harry, if he’s honest, but- he can’t really see what talking the same things over again and again would do for them. He’s leaving in a day or two, he can’t and won’t go back on that now. Harry’s going to college and Louis can’t ask him to do long distance because, even if he did say yes, he’d only mean it until he realised what it’s like. Louis can’t ask him that. “Did you really tell them that?”

“No, calm down,” Harry grins, before he hitches up the mop and bucket and heads for the door,  “just told’em we had some wild monkey-fucking to do.”

He turns and leaves before Louis has a chance to formulate a response.

 

*

 

Later on, when everyone’s pre-drinking in the living-room, blasting music and recklessly undoing a day’s worth of cleaning, he finds out through Leo that Harry only told people he wasn’t going himself. Judging from the way Harry watches him all evening, smiles when Louis watches him back, but then keeps on shamelessly watching when Louis looks away again, he wanted Louis to find out. Wanted Louis to know that it’s his choice whether he stays or he goes, but if he doesn’t choose to stay then he’s made the wrong one.

Louis tells Leo and anyone else who asks, that he isn’t going.

“Well,” Louis says, when the last person’s out of the bungalow and, suddenly, they’re alone together. It’s a while since they have been. It’s the first time since they talked - _really_ talked. It’s odd. “Could you go for some tea?”

Harry is slouched back on the air-mattress, wearing his red sweatsuit and fiddling with the sim card for a spare-phone, since he 'dropped' his old one. “Yeah, thanks,” he murmurs, “ - leave the bag in.”

“I know, Harry, you don’t have to say it every _single_ time,” Louis groans, but he isn’t really irritated with Harry. For once, he isn’t even really irritated with himself.  

Mostly, he thinks as he heads into the kitchen, flicks on the electric kettle and hops up on the counter to watch it boil, he’s irritated with the situation. If certain things had been done before, _said_ before, if certain things had been timed differently, maybe they wouldn’t have turned out like this. Maybe Louis wouldn’t have gotten the guy, gotten the love and the reciprocation and everything, and _still_ somehow ended himself up in a situation where he wouldn’t be able to have any of it at all.

But, you can always sit and sulk over the unchangeable. Won’t make the kettle boil any faster.

“I’m going to bed,” comes a drawl from the other room, “just bring my tea up.”

“Up?” Louis echoes, but Harry doesn’t hear it, already on his heavy-stepped way up the stairs.

Louis finishes their teas - not forgetting to leave Harry’s bag in, _for the love of all that is holy in this godforsaken world_ \-  and takes them upstairs. He hasn’t even been up here since they got to the bungalow; Niall and Nat hijacked the parent’s bedroom before he had a chance and, since they were the only couple in the house at the time, it seemed reasonable that they should.

Louis considers reminding Harry that they might come home drunk tonight, wanting to bone their bleeding brains out and, if he knows them right, which he sadly does when it comes to this, they won’t give a flying flapjack whether someone’s already in the bed. He considers it, but then he reaches up the stairs and finds Harry, belly-down on rose-coloured sheets.

He’s stripped down to his boxers now, and he seems to have finally changed pairs, because they’re striped blue and green now, tight across his little bum. He’s got both arms under a pillow, face half-buried in it, and he seems to have miraculously left the spare-phone downstairs.

If Louis doesn’t smack his arse on the way to the nightstand, it’s only because he’s carrying two steaming hot teas. “Hey.”

“Oh. Hey.” Harry rolls onto his side, and he doesn’t even notice that Louis left the tea-bag in, let alone reach for his cup, but he smiles so sweetly up at Louis that it’s almost forgivable. “Thought we could sleep up here tonight. Niat promised they’d take the air-mattress.”

Oh. “Negotiated with them, did you?” Louis pulls off his sweater, not missing the way Harry’s eyes glide down his body as he does, appreciative and not the least bit shameful about it.

“Yeah,” he says, voice gone a bit rough, “yeah, I- told’em mummy and daddy needed their room back for the night.”

“ _Mummy and daddy_ ,” Louis slips into bed with him, turning to his tea just to keep himself in motion, “that’s kinda kinky.”

“M-hm,” Harry takes advantage and drags a hand up the back of Louis’ thigh as he lies on his side to slurp his tea, “can you chug that really fast, please?”

Louis sighs, just to let out the breath he’s been holding since he got a bit too close to Harry, and tries to make it sound exasperated. “Tea is not meant to be chugged. Tea is meant to be enjoyed, like a fine wine or-”

“This arse,” Harry says, slipping a hand down the back of Louis' boxers.

Louis has another sip, just for show, and then puts the tea back on the nightstand and turns. “Hey,” he says, just because.

“Hi,” Harry says, smiling.

Louis presses his finger into the dimple that pops out. “God, you are just so ridiculously beau-”

“- oh, piss off.”

Louis laughs.

Harry does too, and once he’s done, he just smiles, for a long time. It’s a wide, closed-mouthed one, dimply and beautiful, but there’s something so inherently sad about it; something in his eyes Louis can’t quite describe. He knows what it's about, though, if he really thinks about it.

But, he doesn’t want to think about it. Not right now. Not when there’s so little time left _not_ to think about it.

“We don’t _have_ to fuck or anything,” Harry says then, “we can just, like, lie and kiss if you want.” It looks so incredibly reluctant that Louis has to bark a screechy laugh into his face. “- my eeeear,” Harry whines, picking at it and pouting, “that really hurt, Lou-eh…”

Louis scoffs and laughs and shuffles closer.

“Nevermind, then, daddy doesn’t want to kiss you anyway,” Harry tells him, in a ridiculously inappropriate baby-voice.

“Oh, you are _so_ not daddy,” Louis snorts, “you aren’t even mummy, you’re like- you’re like, the weird male nanny who-”

“Stop talking, man,” Harry cuts through, and then he laughs, and then he kisses Louis, hard.

Louis goes easy in his arms, waiting for Harry to tip him onto his back and get between his legs like he normally would, but he doesn’t tonight. After a while of kissing, hands roaming each other’s bodies, light and tentative, almost, he pulls back and smiles, a little dazedly. He pets Louis’ cheek and then grabs him by the waist and flips him onto his stomach.

Louis lifts his hips for him as he begins to pull his boxers down, but can’t help a little; “didn’t feel like looking me in the eye tonight, huh?”

“Wanna look at your arse. Wanna look at your face,” Harry murmurs as he blankets Louis with all of his weight, hard cock pressing into the crevice of his arse. He’s warm and wide, heart beating fast into Louis’ back, and it’s so good to have him like this that Louis doesn’t even have it in him to complain about his weight, “if you turn your head to the side, I can have both,” Harry says.

Louis does, just to look back at him, and Harry kisses him immediately. “Can I fuck you like this?” he asks as he pulls back again, and Louis wants to tell him no just to see if it’ll make a difference, - secretly hoping that Harry’s that particularly domineering sort of horny where it doesn’t - but he bites his tongue.

He wants to be sweet tonight. Wants so bad for it to be perfect.

“Yeah, you can,” he says, rolling his hips back in rhythm with Harry’s, “if you’ve got some lube, you can have me however you want.”

It seems like he’s already planned ahead, like he might’ve been asking around ever since this morning, because he sprints over to a bag, pulls a big bottle out and comes right back again immediately. Louis decides not to say anything because he’s too hard to care who knows about what right now.

Harry straddles the back of his thighs, warming lube between his hands, and Louis watches him, licking his lips and slicking up his big dick. “I’m not gonna, I- I won’t wear a condom,” he says, looking at Louis almost pleadingly, “is that all right?”

It’s clear that it isn’t about lack of supply, but rather something else, something personal and needy, and for that exact reason, for the desperate little crease between Harry’s brows, Louis tells him; “okay.”

“Thank you.” Harry lies down on him again, torso molding into the curve of Louis’ spine, and adds; “I’ll pull out if you want, I promise.”

When he pushes in, it feels different than last; just as warm and raw and intimate, but less manic, less like something that needs to be gotten over with. Harry stays hovering right above Louis’ face, their eyes locked as he slowly bottoms out. He doesn't look away until Louis can’t help but screw his eyes shut and fist a hand up in the sheets. “- _fuck_.”

“Shh,” Harry covers Louis’ fist with his own, threading his fingers through the back of them and squeezing, “shh, I’ve got you, babe. I’ve got you.”

It’s always like this in the beginning; it’s just the first time Louis doesn’t force himself to take the sting for a while until it gets better. It’s nice, for a change. Allowing himself to be vulnerable. “Hurt’s a bit.”

“Mhm?” Harry presses a kiss to the shell of Louis’ ear, then his earlobe and the juncture of his jaw, “s’been a while.”

Louis gives a choked snort. “What, two days?”

“Different then,” Harry mutters, lips pressed to Louis’ cheek, “I was angry with you.”

Louis' dick twitches a little at that; the thought of Harry fucking him harder out of resentment. It probably shouldn’t, but it does. “And you’re not angry now?” he asks.

“No,” Harry smiles a little, a slither of that sadness from before back in his eyes, “I just want to be close with you.”

He must see something in Louis’ eyes, maybe something that mimics the look in his own, because he dips down then, burying his face in the crook of Louis’ neck.

He pulls out a little and snaps back in, and it’s good, it doesn’t hurt, not even a little bit. It’s wetter, more slick and less of a strain on both of them, like Harry doesn’t have to force himself back in every time. The noises they make come out softer, quieter, and Louis likes it, the slow, deep roll of Harry’s hips and the continuous string of kisses he plants up Louis’ shoulders, his neck and into his hair. His arms snake around Louis’ body, one at his lower belly and the other across his chest, hand gripping onto his shoulder, and he keeps his face down with Louis’, lips parted as he pants into his ear.

“Love fucking you like this,” he breathes, voice low and soft at the same time, “‘can feel all of your body... the arch of your back... the way you push back on me when I let you,” he pulls out half-way and pushes back in, so deep that Louis curses and slaps back at him, but it’s good, it’s _so_ good, “and I can see your face like this too,” he goes on, “the way your jaw twitches... the way your lips move when you moan… the way your cheeks hollow when you’re biting the insides not to let me know how good it is,” Harry drags his lips along Louis’ shoulders, “and-” he adds, the brush of his breath raising the hairs on the nape of Louis’ neck, “you can’t even push me off, so… I get to hold you.”  

“S’that a turn on?” Louis pants, dragging his back-stretched hand up Harry’s thigh and cupping his arse, feeling it lift as he pulls out and then clench, tight and firm, as he pushes back in, goes deep and stays for seconds on end every time, “holding me, is that-”

“Holding you _down_ is a turn on,” Harry cuts through, “just holding you, that’s - _ungh_ \- that’s just… makes me feel safe. And like- like m’keeping you safe. Like I’ve got you.”

“You do have me,” Louis hears himself breathe out, before he twists his neck again and kisses him, “you _do_ have me, Harry.”

Harry kisses him back, sloppily, tongue licking around aimlessly, and a string of spit connecting their mouths when he pulls back. His pupils have blown wide, his eyes near-black, and there’s a blotchy cherry-red flush up his cheeks, matching his swollen lips. “I’m not gonna last much longer,” he warns, pressing a peck to Louis’ shoulder, “I- _ungh_ \- I, can I-”

“Yes,” Louis blurts, “yes, yes, you can- come in me.”

With his face pressed deep in the mattress beside Louis’ face, the set of his jaw hard and twitchy, Harry speeds his thrusts, rabbity as he chases it. When he comes he still sounds surprised, spitting filthy curses and rucking Louis up the mattress to try and get as deep as possible. It feels odd, having someone come inside; hot and nasty, and not necessarily in the good way. But, looking at Harry, having him all over his body as he rides every last drop of himself off inside, Louis gets it; it isn’t just about the physical aspect.

And, well, Harry’s so grateful, peppering him with kisses and touches and little words for ages after, that Louis knows he’s chosen the right person to let do it.

He pulls out at some point, gently tips Louis onto his back and curls three fingers inside of him as he proceeds to tug him off. “Do you want me to, uhm, get down and take it in my mouth for a bit or-”

Louis grabs him by the arm and lifts his head up just to peck him on the side of the mouth. “No, just- just, stay up here, babe. Stay close.”

Harry nods, pliant like a child, and kisses Louis again. He soon drops his head to Louis’ shoulder, watching his own hands as he gets Louis off, and Louis fists a hand up in his hair and kisses his head and tells him over and over how good he is, how much he loves him, because it’s true, it’s all true and he’s so fucking tired of holding back.

He doesn’t, for much longer, spurting all over Harry’s hand and up his own stomach.

Harry moves to go and wash off, but Louis grabs him by the wrist and pulls him back in. “Can’t you just- stay? For a bit.”

“Oh. Yeah, ‘course, I just wanted to get you a cloth and-”

“M-hm.” Louis throws a hand out and finds a pair of boxers - his own, regrettably - and then wipes Harry’s hand and his own stomach off with it. “Done,” he announces, chucking the cum-shorts across the room, “now you have no excuse to leave.”

Harry smiles, a little, and tips halfway over Louis to smooth his sweaty fringe back from his face. “Stop saying shit like that,” he whispers, before he presses a kiss to Louis’ forehead, “if it were up to me we’d just stay here forever.”

Louis closes his eyes, because he’s tired and he can’t cope with the look in Harry’s eyes, the words behind his words. Louis is leaving. Leaving town, leaving Harry, leaving what they could’ve been if he weren’t. It’s on him, it’s his choice and he’s still too fucking selfish to go back on it. Maybe Harry resents him for it; not making the sacrifice for the sake of him. Maybe he’s relieved, in some ways, knowing that, at least, he won’t have to deal with all the complications that’d come with making a proper go of it. Get them before they get you.

Maybe Louis’ just projecting, once again.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks then. He’s on his side, one arm under his own head and the other further down, hand rubbing at Louis’ stomach. “If you’re thinking about London,” he says, warily, “then you’re not the only one.”

Louis swallows, turning to meet his eyes. There’s that terrible sadness again. “What are you thinking? About London?” he wills himself to ask.

“I’m thinking…” Harry drops his gaze for a moment, chewing on the side of his mouth. Then he licks over it and looks up again, determined, “that I’ve been meaning to tell you that- or ask you if- if, that, maybe…. I mean, if- we could, maybe, make a go of things? Still? I mean, I’d- I don’t want to impose myself on you, Lou, but… if you’d let me come with you, I would. Or- or- if you want to go by yourself, but you maybe still want to- I’d do the long distance. I’d, uhm, I’d take the train down to London every weekend, if you wanted. I’d, it’s- it’s up to you, but I’d- I’d do it.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, Louis can’t quite find his words.

Harry takes it as hesitation. “Lou, I know that- I know that I haven’t made you happy lately, but- but, if you let me show you how I _can_ be, if I know you want it too, I know that I could be- I know I could be good to you. I could make you really happy, I _know_ I could. If you just gave me a chance to show you; I can treat you so well, I _know_ I can if you let me. I love you.”

“Wow.” Maybe it’s because he just came, maybe it’s because Harry looks so certain, but for the first time in forever, Louis’ thoughts aren’t racing. For once, he hasn’t got a new excuse as to why it won’t work lined up lest the former should fail. “I mean, I- but what if we’re-” he begins, perhaps more out of habit than anything else, “what about- what would our parents say? We’re step-brothers,” he ends up on, “we’re gonna share a fucking sibling in common.”

Harry shrugs, rolling onto his back. “So we are,” he mutters, “so, that’ll be a bit weird. That’ll be that. Is that really more important than- us?”

Well- “no, but- but- what if your mum doesn’t let you move with me?”

“If my mum, for some inexplicable, crazy reason, says no to me - which would be the first time in history, by the way - then I’ll take the train down to London as often as you’ll have me. I’ll cook for you, I’ll suck you off all the time. Heck, I’ll even make conversation.”

Louis can’t help a little chuckle. “You’d do that for me?” he asks, tucking a stray curl behind Harry’s ear.

He tips back onto his side, smiling. “I mean, I’d attempt.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.” Harry presses a peck to the inside of Louis’ wrist. “So, since that’s settled, what do you say? What do you say, you and I make a proper go of it for once?” He drags a finger down the length of Louis’ nose, “huh, bubz? I think we owe it to ourselves to at least try.”

Louis smiles, a little. “And by that you mean _I_ owe it to _you_?”

Harry shrugs again, grinning. “I mean, whatever works.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but can't help himself from chuckling a bit, still. “Right, all right, but Haz, there are so many things you’re not accounting for right now. Things like-”

“Yes, of course, Lou, loads of shit could go wrong if we tried. We’ve known that all along, haven’t we? Didn’t stop us from jumping one another, did it?” Harry goes on, “I think, maybe for once, we should let ourselves try. _Really_ try. We’ve done the half-way thing and we were fucking miserable. We’ve done the not-at-all thing and we were fucking miserable. Let’s do the all-in thing for once. See if we’re a little less fucking miserable that way.”

Louis chuckles. “A little less fucking miserable,” he echoes, “I suppose that does sound a little bit better.”

“I think it will be.”

And, well- he isn’t wrong at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realised too late that I did not fit Sunday into the equation at all. Please forgive me


	40. Epilogue

His phone wakes him around 9am. His alarm is off and he reminded Alice last night that he was sleeping in, but of course he shouldn’t be so lucky, not even on the rare day off. After a second, the phone stops vibrating violently against the nightstand, and Louis rolls over and drags the duvet up to to cover his face.

Six minutes later, he’s still staring at the insides of it, wide awake and angry.

“ _Fucker_ ,” he hisses to himself, throwing off the duvet and grabbing the stupid phone.

When he sees who woke him, who so carelessly texted him at 9am in the night, it does  _nothing_ to help his aggravated state; Anne. Of course it’s Anne. Not two days pass by without a text or a video or a freaking Skype-call from Anne. He thinks he’s had more contact with Anne since he left for London than he has with his dad his entire life. But, then again, his dad isn’t much for electronics or… talking.

When he sees what Anne messaged him, though, things sort of… soften up a bit. It’s a video of little Ruby, now big enough to sit up on her own, playing with Cleo and Pat. Louis’ heart always lurches a little, seeing the dogs - he misses Cleo so much sometimes he considers jumping on a train after work just to spend half an hour with her. But, they do look happiest at home, where there is space and nature and no constant traffic - meaning dangerous bombs, to little country-dogs like them - outside the windows.

They do look happy with the baby too, licking her chubby little hands and nuzzling into her soft rounded face. She’s got Anne’s dark hair, near black-looking on her porcelain head, and she’s got a lot of it already. She’s got those big blue-ish Disney-eyes too, bright and animated as she laughs and giggles and splutters out a bit of spit-up and ew… the video cuts off.

Louis texts back a quick ‘ **naww <3**’ and heads off to shower.

The living-situation that Alice (Anne’s lesbian friend, who turned out to both not be a vegan and also not be a lesbian, but rather just a woman who’d come on to Anne by accident, like, _once_ ) provides is actually rather all right. The bedroom is large, leaving a good amount of floor-space left, even with a queen-sized bed, a desk, a huge dresser and, of course, the telly and the Xbox, in here. There’s a window above the bed, the sill just wide enough that one might refer to it as a bay window. It’s got pillows on it, anyways, and it overlooks a little patch of park six stories down, so it’s a cosy place to sit and think.

The bathroom is small and old-fashioned, the kind with a pull-chain for the toilet and two long rusty bars under the sink instead of a cabinet. There’s a tiny corner-shower with a brown-ish curtain that won’t pull all the way around and there are only two temperature-options for the water; third-degree-burn-hot or freeze-your-bollocks-off-cold.

But, he likes it. All of it. It’s grown-up. It’s his own. It’s without a parent barging in on you and telling you when to come out and when to come home. It’s his own.

After a shower and a while of just lying around, he ventures downstairs. Alice’s part of the flat is bigger, of course, with a living-room, a bedroom and a shared kitchen. In addition to the loft-space, she’s also rented out two shelves in her fridge, one drawer in the freezer and a kitchen-cabinet, which is- well, rather nice too.

“You’re up early,” Alice remarks as he pads into the kitchen that morning.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, pulls a box of cereal from the cabinet and scouts the fridge for milk, “you know. Gotta be up anyway.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. When were your friends coming again? I'm leaving for work in around four hours.”

Well. If Nancy and Liam get a say, they’ll be right on time. If Niall and Nat intervene, they’ll ' _accidentally miss the train_ ' and arrive approximately three hours late. He puts his life in Nancy's hands and mutters “I'm picking them up at the station 'round one” around a mouthful of cereal. 

“And where you going out first or comin’ back here because I need to tidy up a bit or-”

“No, no, don't worry about it, they're all pigs anyway.”

Alice returns to her paper and answers him only in one-syllable hums after that. He eats up quickly, and then heads back upstairs. For as long as he’s been living here, he doesn’t recall ever having a conversation with Alice that lasted more than the duration of three spoonfuls of cereal. A nurse who seems to take a special sort of pride in taking on an extraordinary amount of extra-shifts, Alice is always either on the go or absolutely spent from having just  _been_ on the go.

Louis doesn’t mind it, really. It’s nice to be able to just be yourself when at home. It’s nice that she doesn’t mother him. 

 

-

 

“See ya,” he yells out a few hours later, before he slams the front door behind him and heads to Farringdon Station to pick up the lot. It’s the closest one to Alice’s and it’s also the same exact station that Louis came in through when he first traveled up here to stay. It’s odd, now being the proper ‘Londoner’ himself, picking his farmer-friends from whatever northern dystopia they’ve escaped. Well, it’s odd anyway.

Liam and Nancy arrive first, having caught the train an hour before than Niat.

“We wanted to wait for them, but they kept on not picking up and we’d already missed the first train so we just had to jump on. They didn’t text us until we’d been on our way for over half an hour,” Nancy explains, panting and wheezing due to some malfunctioning escalators, even though she’s made Liam carry all of their luggage, even her fanny-pack. Or maybe that’s his fanny-pack. Louis decides not to ask. “Anyway, they’ll be here in about an hour or so. I thought we could go for lunch or something in the meantime. Must be a pub around here somewhere?”

“What, in London? A pub? I highly doubt it.”

Nancy gives him a weak slap.

She’s gotten thicker around her bottom-half since last he saw her, but she’s wearing the exact same pair of jeans. Needless to say, she turns a few heads. Liam gives a bloke a weird look when he nearly cracks his own neck checking out her shall-we-say plump bottom, and the bloke quickly scrams. Louis supposes Liam  _is_ good for that; creeping out the creepy.

They find a cosy little pub and dump themselves in a corner-booth. When Louis gets up to go and order for them, Nancy yanks him back tells him to sit. “Liam’s doing that,” she says, sharply, “just give him money for your own stuff, but let him go and pay.”

Louis frowns, but hands Liam the money anyway.

“What. The. _Hell_ ,” he begins, soon as Liam’s out of earshot, “was that all about?”

“Oh, well, we’re doing this new thing where Liam has to deal with all of the people we talk to,” she says, as if it makes perfect sense. When Louis keeps frowning at her like she’s gone mad, she straightens up and elaborates; “like, say we go down the shops to buy some milk, right? Liam has to be the one to go and buy it for us - I mean, even if I’m the one paying or my mum or someone else, Liam still has to be the one who goes up and deals with the person behind the till and such.”

“Why?”

“Cause, it’s part of his… oh, bloody hell, I’ve forgotten the word, it’s- oh, for fuck’s sake, it’s like… exposure therapy! That’s it. Yeah. Exponentia- _exposure_ therapy. That.”

Louis glances over at Liam who’s manically fiddling with his fingers and dropping coins and going red in the face, even though he isn’t even second in line yet. “For what, like, social phobia?”

She snaps her fingers at him. “Yeah, exactly. That - and, like, a billion other things too. Ask his therapist, she’s got all’em fancy words for it.”

“His therapist _told_ you what he suffers from?”

“No, I mean- well, I went in with him one day. She wanted to meet Liam’s girlfriend and I wanted some shit explained. Since, you know… if I’m in this, I’ve got to know how to help him - properly. Cause, ya know... like, I’m scared of running into my ex, right? - the one who cheated on me, you know the one -  but if someone asked me if I was, I’d say ‘ _fuck no, I don’t give a shit about that arsehole_ ’, you know?”

“Ehm…”

“Well, it’s like this; I’d be embarrassed that I was scared to see my ex because I’m not supposed to give a shit, right? I’m supposed to be all cool about it. And it’s sort of the same with Liam; he’s scared of all of this shit, but he’s also really scared of _admitting_ that he’s scared of it. And it’s not like I can read his mind, like- so his therapist explained shit to me. And now I try and help him. With stuff like this.”

“Right. Right, that’s- I suppose that’s good.”

Liam returns and he’s gotten the order wrong and he’s tipped like a crazy American, but he looks a little bit proud of himself and Nancy dos too. It’s sort of sweet, Louis supposes. In a grown-up-man-with-crippling-social-anxiety-sort of way.

So, once they get a text from Niat that they’ve arrived at the station and they don’t know where the fuck to go, Louis and Nancy send Liam to go and get them. A little personal exponential therapy-quest. Of sorts.

When Louis and Nancy are alone again, Nancy gives a long sigh, sprawling her too-tight-jeaned thighs over his lap and freeing her hair from the scrunchie she's kept it in since they met. It's shorter than last he saw it. “Did you take out your tape-ins?”

“Oh.” She throws a hand through her hair. “Yeah, I- no offense, mate, but those things are really fuckin’ annoyin’ to have in. Got proper ratty-looking after a while too.”

“Well, if you aren’t looking after them properly-”

“And besides, Liam likes to touch my scalp.”

“Well. That’s creepy.”

She barks a laugh. “No, not- like, he scratches it. And stuff. He doesn’t like the fake stuff, at least not the stuff that gets in the way of other stuff. I don’t either, to be completely honest. Feels a bit like too much of a sacrifice, ya know? No offense or anything.”

“None taken. What _does_ he like, then? Your Liam?”

“Meee.” She tilts her head coquettishly and puts on a Cheshire-cat smile. As over-exaggerated as it is, it’s also real; the part that reaches her eyes. The part that _comes_ from her eyes. She’s happy. She’s healthy and happy and, whether she’s taken on a few pounds on her arse and off a few from her hair, she looks fucking amazing, just like that. “What?” she asks, because he’s staring.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, “nothing, I just- I’m just happy,” he smiles, “that you’re happy.”

“Aww,” she ruffles his fringe out of place before she reaches for her beer. She has a big gulp, then smacks her lips, looks out at nothing and mutters; “but you are right, though. I _am_ ,” she nods, “I am really happy. He'd never cheat in a million years and we do really connect, you know, when it's just the two of us. Not to forget, he's mind- _blowing_ in the sack,” she sighs, “imagine, I almost never gave him a chance, that creepy lurker.”

Louis gives a little chuckle. “Are you allowed to call him that? A creepy lurker?”

“What, by who? His therapist? Probably not,” she laughs, “don’t tell her I did.”

“All right, I won’t.”

She laughs again. Once it fades, she shakes her head down at her beer, the remnants of a smile still left on her face. “You know, the first night I met him, he was staring at me - in that way the he does. I didn’t know he did that, though, so I just thought he was staring because, you know - well, I’d done my makeup and I was wearing a little dress and everything. It felt as though- well, you know. I know I’m no supermodel. I suppose I thought he thought what a lot of them lad’s think… about girls like me.”

Louis swallows, his throat a bit tight suddenly. “What do you mean, ' _what they think about girls like me_ '?”

She lift her head and smiles, but it’s a sad one, the kind where the crooks of her mouth keep pulling downwards. “' _Why would she even try?_ ' ' _I wouldn’t touch her with a ten foot pole_ ',” she recites, tonelessly, “' _it’s just lipstick on a pig_ '. ' _I feel like going on the hog tonight_ '. ' _Whoever pulls the fattest bird tonight wins_ '. And- don’t give me that look, Lou, I’m not stupid and I’m not looking for you to lie to me to make me feel better either. I’m just saying; I know what people think. I know what guys think- about girls like me.”

“I didn’t think that about you.”

She chuckles a little. “Well, you didn’t think much about anyone but Harry then, did ya?”

“Right.”

“Anyway,” she goes on, “then I drove Liam home and whatnot - that night when he’d been staring. Stayed out there with him when his mum wasn’t home, don’t ask me why. Guess I just didn’t know how to ask him to leave. Then, in the morning, I woke and he was staring at me again. In that way that he does. And I ended up just snapping at him; asking him to just tell me straight up what he was thinking of me instead of sitting there, tearing me apart inside his own head. I don’t know why i went so mad, why I thought I was some kind of mind-reader or- but I accused him of thinking all of this _horrible_ shit about me. I went mental on him, poor kid.”

“And? What did he say?”

She gives something that can only be described as an embarassed chuckle mixed with a sigh of utter relief. “- _and_ ,” she says, “he told me - or stuttered out, rather - that he had an issue with eye-contact. That he didn’t know when to look and when to look away and how or when to start or join a conversation. That, if he wanted to talk to someone, he’d end up staring at them for so long that they thought he was insane. That, while he stared, all that went on through his head was ' _comeupwithsomethingtosay-comeupwithsomethingtosay-comeupwithsomethingtosay_ ', over and over and over again. And that, also, he had an issue with telling the mood of a situation; so, like, say two people were getting it on in a cocoon bed, right?”

“Fuckin’-”

“And, say, Liam walked in on it. It might take him much too long to know how to react to it all. Which is why he sometimes comes off as… well… creepy.”

“Right. Right.” Louis sits for a bit, just processing the information. “Right, so- so, what was the point of this? Was there a lesson or…?”

“Well, yeah, have you not been listening at all?” she exclaims, “the lesson is, you blockhead, that people care a million times more about their own problems than they do yours. So, while I was thinking Liam stared at me for being too fat to feel pretty, he was thinking I was giving him looks for not coming up with something to say. Or being weird. Or having all of his diagnoses. You know, whatever. And, and- last year, I was so worried about keeping everyone from seeing me with 'Lurky Liam' - even you, actually - that I wasn't there for him during a tough time. I never, ever want to want to be that person to someone I care about again. - especially when it's due to something as stupid as what people I _don't_ care about think about me.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“But- but- it’s kind of cool, innit? When you think about it; that people don’t give a shit what you do. Or what you look like, really. At least not even half as big of a shit as they give about their own shit. Right?”

“Right.” She narrows her eyes at him, so he throws in a nod. “You’re very right, Nance. We’re all just a load of self-absorbed narcissists, us people.”

She lifts her glass to toast. “Agreed,” she says at their glasses clink, “and how freeing that is to know. If one really sits and thinks about it.”

“But one wouldn't,” he adds, “because one’s much too busy worrying about those two extra grams of fat on one’s belly.”

“As one should, you fat fuck.” 

 

-

 

Forty minutes later, Liam arrives back empty-handed. “I- they- they weren’t where they said they be,” he stammers out.

He’s soaking wet, just from walking from the station and across the street to the pub. Well, maybe he’s been wandering town for a bit, who knows what he gets up to? Anyway, it turns out that Niat never once thought to ask what station they were supposed to arrive at and therefore, of course, ended themselves up at the wrong one.

Liam, Louis and Nancy take the tube to King’s Cross and meet with them. Nat is wearing a gigantic winter-coat and Niall, the gentleman that he is, carries all of her luggage. It isn't until they reach back to Alice’s flat and Nat takes off her gigantic coat, that Louis realises exactly why she was so well packed-in. “Please tell me that’s a watermelon under your dress.”

“It iiiisn’t!” Niall exclaims, jumping into the little kitchen, “I’m gonne be a daddy!”

“Jesus Christ, Nat, you’re not even eighteen yet, you-” Louis trails off, realising mid-sentence that he sounds like a parent of sorts. “Wow. Guys.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, red with excitement, “and my cousin Tommy let us have his old caravan for free and everythin’. We’ve got our own kitchen and loo and I’m managing supervisor in Tesco now - did I tell you about that, they caught TJ nickin’ pennies from the register and fired him and let me take over - and anyway, we’ve got enough money saved up to buy a shitload of diapers.”

“Shit,” Louis says, half-speechless, “wow,” he scratches at the back of his neck, then throws his hand out at Nat’s booming belly, “Jesus.”

“Nah, just me,” Niall grins, “ _trust_ me, she ain’t no Virgin Mary.”

“Despite what my parents who kicked me out would’ve liked to believe.”

“Your parents kicked you out?”

“Anyway, I’m gonna finish school next year and then I’ll be a secretary or something cool, get us proper minted. And we’ve been by your old house a couple times to collect some of Ruby’s old clothing off Anne as well. She’s a proper little porker, that Ruby, never seen anyone grow out of clothes that fast - well, except for my uncle, but he’s got fungus growing between his rolls, so that’s…  - Anyway, by the time the baby’s born we’ll have enough clothes to last us a year or so,” Nat rants, “isn’t it ace?”

Well. Ehm. “Yes,” Louis breathes, “yeah, sure. Yeah. Ace. Wow.”

“Doge.”

“Yeah. Right. So, so, ehm - anyone want a cup of tea or-”

“Fuckin’ _finally_ ,” Nancy exclaims, like she'd been holding her breath since she stepped in the door, “been waitin’ for fuckin’ hours, have you got no fuckin’ manners?”

“Says the woman swearing like a sailor.”

“Just put on the fuckin’ kettle already.”

“Aye aye.”

They gather in the livingroom, slouching out on Alice’s faded red corduroy-couches and Louis dishes up with Jaffa-cakes and minute-noodles. Niat and Nancy turn a cosy chat about baby-names into a heated political discussion while Liam stares longingly out of the window - that or he’s perfected the art of sleeping with his eyes open. Louis rests back in the coffee-stained corduroy and enjoys the vibrations around him. He’s missed these fucking farmers.

They pull out the couch, which is really a futon, and, since Nat can now pull the pregnancy-card on anything and everything she wants, Niat get to have it. Meanwhile, Louis pulls an air-mattress out of a closet for Liam and Nancy and foot-pumps it up for them, the gracious host that he is.

“Goodnight,” he says afterwards, for the eleventh time because Niall won't stop yapping it back every time, like a competitive fucking parrot, “ _last_ one,” he adds, just for good measure, and then pretends he doesn’t hear it when Niall still yells it again.

He heads up the stairs and into his bathroom. He takes a shower, just for the warmth of it, and then brushes his teeth, just for the heck of it, and then finally admits defeat and goes to bed. It’s all right when it’s morning; when the light streams in through the bay-window above him and he’s got stuff to do, stuff to take him out of bed and into the real world.

It’s worse at times like these; when it’s all black sky, dim flickering lights and a huge cold bed just for one little person. He hates this. Just tumbling around there, unable to fall asleep and feeling cold, even as he’s sweating from how much he’s turned up the heat. He hates it; how little he feels, all alone in this gigantic bed.

 

-

 

He wakes at the click of the door. He must’ve managed, then, to fall asleep alone anyway. The lights get flicked on, but Louis doesn’t say anything, just stays curled up under his duvet, pretending to be asleep still.

As much as he hates the rare nights where he has to go to bed alone, he loves this part; he loves when Harry comes home from an extra night-shift, slow and tired and talking to himself. He loves listening to the sounds of him. When he kicks off his shoes and then picks them up and meticulously aligns them with the rest along the wall. When he throws his coat over the pink chair in the corner, the one he picked up at a flea market and emotionally abused Louis into allowing up here. When he sits down on that same chair, unbuttoning his work shirt, grunting and telling off the buttons if they’re being particularly difficult. When he shimmies out of his jeans, making all sorts of sounds that could be mistaken for shitting or fucking.

When he sighs, stretches and cracks his knuckles, and then pads across the room and runs a hand through Louis’ hair and kisses his forehead.

When he leans down and whispers, softly, against Louis’ skin; “I know you aren't asleep, you fuckin’ loser.”

“What do you mean? I’m practically dead,” Louis grins, still not opening his eyes.

Harry bites his cheek. Louis screeches, eyes shooting open. “Ha!” Harry barks, hovering right above him, much too awake for someone who’s been on the go since five o’clock this morning, “got ya. I win.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, big boy,” Louis murmurs, rolling onto his stomach.  

Harry runs two fingers down his spine, cups and kneads at one of his arse-cheeks and then gives it a slap in conclusion. “Saw the lot downstairs,” he says, heading toward the bathroom, “they _were_ all asleep, though.”

Louis watches his long slim legs until they’ve sauntered out of sighs, then rests his face down on the pillow and drawls; “did you know Nat was-”

“Pregnant?” Harry mutters around his toothbrush, coming back out to slouch in the doorway, “yeah. Mum accidentally told me two days ago.”

“And you’ve been lying to me this _whole_ time?”

Harry makes eyes at him. “Your entire life’s built upon a lie,” he exclaims, “might as well just buy a one-way ticket to Mexico and start fresh.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but laughs when Harry turns away again.

“They wanted to tell you themselves,” he drawls, coming out of the loo again, sans toothbrush. “They wanted to see your expression.”

“Why? I’m not that much of a reactor, am I?”

“No, but that’s the fun part,” he grins, “- _they_ said,” he adds quickly, “you try so hard not to react that it’s a reaction in itself. - _They_ said.”

“Hmph,” Louis grunts, burying his face in the pillow.

Harry bops about for another couple minutes, fixing things for tomorrow morning and whatnot. He likes to keep things in order, Louis’ noticed. Have things ready at a certain time in a certain way in a certain place. He’s never fanatic about it, never nags or moans or yells about it, but if he doesn’t get to prepare himself he’ll be grumpy in his own way. If he wakes up ten minutes too late or he can’t find that particular shirt he was supposed to wear or certain plates and mugs don't get taken back down to the kitchen in good time, he’ll go a bit quiet. He’ll get a bit introverted. Louis knows by now that the best way to handle it is to let it blow over by itself. Last he did the opposite, things got thrown. Stuff was said. Screamed.

But, it’s just the way it is, he supposes, when you move in with someone. It could be very much worse. Louis could be the exact same as Harry and then they’d just have _two_ grumpy idiots, not speaking to one another. Or Harry could be just like Louis, in which case they'd be talking a lot, but mostly over each-other, and they'd have _nowhere_ to sit because they'd have no empty floor-space left what so _ever_.

No, it’s fine like this, Louis thinks. They complement one another quite well, in their own way.

“Popped by the shops on the way home,” Harry mutters as he blankets Louis with his entire weight and nuzzles into his cheek from behind, “gonna make eggs and bakey in the morning.”

“Hmm.”

Harry snakes two arms around him and squeezes, hard. “D’you know what this is?” he hums against the back of Louis’ shoulder.

“Suffocating me?”

“This is literally the only thing I think about for four hours straight when I sit behind the till and wait for my shift to end.”

He rolls off to get the lights then, while Louis crawls under the covers and pushes an otherwise irrepressible smile into his pillow.

Harry shuffles in with him - they keep two duvets due to a two-for-one-bargain that they ' _just couldn't resist, Loueeh_ ', but they never ever use the other one - and fits around him from behind. Louis drags his nails up and down the underside of Harry’s arm, just the way he loves it, and Harry hums gratefully into the nape of his neck. “Love you,” he also hums, right before, “warm,” and then, of course, “fuck, my feet were killin’ me all day, need some new shoes.”

“No. You don’t.” Ever since they moved here - two weeks and three days in, to be exact - Harry has taken to wearing boots. It started out all right - a pair for the winter, Louis thought. Then a nice pair of dressy ones, for weddings and whatnot. Louis _thought_. But lately, it seems the more boots Harry acquires, the pointier they get. Louis even had to rip Harry's nose off a shop-window the other day because he'd become mesmerized by a pair of leopard-printed ones. _Leopard-printed_. “They’re too expensive anyway.” 

“Hey, I only shop in second-hand shops.”

Louis rolls his eyes so hard he gets a momentary migraine. “Hi, my name is Harry, I only shop in second-hand shops and I only listen to music published twenty or more years ago and I don’t feel a need to define my sexuality, because that’s just how cool and chill I am, but I _only_ eat organic, un-processed arse and I-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Harry laughs, just before he turns Louis around and kisses him quiet.

There’s gum in Harry’s mouth, hard and tasteless from how long he’s been chewing it, but Louis steels it anyway. Harry wrestles him for it, puts him in a headlock and pries his teeth apart and fishes it out of there. He aims for the bin, throws and watches the gum land noway near the bin.

“Loser.”

After that, someone bites someone and someone slaps someone and then they wrestle for a bit before Harry eventually gets tired and ends it by dropping his entire weight down on Louis. Louis closes his legs around him, loosely, rakes his fingers into his curls and scratches at his scalp to make him purr like a cat. Once he’s nice and slack, Louis tips him onto his back and crawls with to settle down his chest.

“Mhm,” Harry hums, squeezing him again, “warm... Soft... Small... Cute... Mhm.”

“Manly. Rugged and manly.”

“Mhm. That too.”

Louis tugs the duvet up to his neck and readjusts, head on Harry’s chest and body right beside him. He slides a hand down Harry’s torso, just to feel, and then his dick and his balls, just because they’re his and he can, and then up again, resting it at Harry's stomach. Harry presses a kiss to the top of his head before he murmurs 'love you' and 'goodnight' and Louis ping-pongs it back.

After while he gets a bit hot, shifts onto his side and faces away from Harry.

Not two minutes later, Harry mutters his name in his sleep and slaps a hand around the mattress. Louis sighs, shuffling back a little, and Harry grabs him round the waist and pulls him back in. He gives a content little grunt, pats Louis’ chest and then settles down again.

Louis twists his neck and kisses his sleep-slack lips, just because they’re his and he can. And, well- they’re attached to his man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, then. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks to everyone who has kudos'ed, subscribed and commented throughout, it's been a great motivation for me to post. 
> 
> If you want to comment with your thoughts and opinions and whatnot, I'd love it! 
> 
> hope you enjoyed <3 
> 
> will probably start a new fic soon, im addicted to larry


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